
aass_ 
Book. 



WASHINGTON 



AND HIS 



GENERALS : 



OR, 



LEGENDS OF THE REVOLUTION. 



BY GEORGE LIPPARD, 

AUTHOR OF LADYE ANNABEL, THE QUAKER CITY, BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE, 

HERBERT TRACY, THE NAZARENE, OR, THE LAST OF 

THE WASHINGTONS, ETC. 



WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR, 

BY REV. C. CHAUNCEY BURR. 



.,,-. L f CPr.v. 



V'^^ 



t C 

PHILADELPHIA : 
G. B. Z I E B E R AND CO, 

1847. 



/ 



ExTEHKD according to Act of Congresi, in the year 1817, by 

GEOROE MPPARD, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of 

Pennsylvania. 



Printed by King Sc Baird, 
No. 9 George St. Fhiladelpliia. 



DEDICATION. 

TO 

ANDREW M'MAKIN, ESQ. 



Allow me, sir, to inscribe witli your name, tliis book of Washington and his 
Generals, as ilhistrated in the Legends of the Revohition. 

To you, as Editor and Proprietor of the first literary jourml in the country — a 
journal which numbering its readers by hundrels of thousanls, lias hitliorto stood 
alone ui its proud devotion to the American Past — do I witli sincere feelings of 
respect for your heart and intellect, dedicate these Legends of the camp, the 
council, and the field. 

I am induced to make this Dedication, by a feeling of simple justice to myself 
and you. Your paper lias always been, not only the family paper of the Union, but 
the Journal of Revolutionary Romance and History. As t!ie Editor, you liave ever 
been untiring in your efforts, to preserve in its columns, t!ie legends of our battle- 
fields, the chronicles of our early struggles for freedom, the memories of our illu.s- 
trions dead. 

Your name therefore, by a smcere impulse of justice, I inscribe at the head of 
these traditions, trusting that you will excuse the liberty I have taken, on account 
of the feeling by which it is dictated. 

There are otlier reasons whicli enter into the Spirit of this Dedication. Last 
summer, when my good name as a citizen, my lienor as an author, was attacked in 
the most licentious manner, by a band of obscene libellers — some of wliom liave 
since made their humble and fawning apologies to mo — you did not count the cost, 
nor falter for a moment, but came out for me like a Man, and in the columns of 
your paper, whipped the whole pack into tlieir native obscurity. 

Tliis is strong language. The occasion demands it. The men who have made 
me the object of their slander, ever since I published a line, are no less merciless 
in their dealings witli the unfortunate, than they are servile and truckling to tlie 
rich and powerful. They would stab you in tlie back to-day, and lick the dust 
from your shoes to-morrow. 

Now, that I have surmounted tlieir accumulated falsehoods — as much by your 
honestly rendered aid, as by the voice of the Press throughout the land — I scorn 
the humbly offered fi-iendsliip of tliese men, as much as I ever scorned their petty 
animosity. My earnest prayer will ever be — let creatures \\lie these, born of the 
atmosphere of malignity, and nurtured by the breath of falsehood, always remain 
my enemies. When they become my friends, I will confess myself utterly un- 
worthy the respect of one honest man. 

This work entitled, " Washington and his Generals, as illustrated in the Le- 
gends of the Revoluion," may be described in one word, as an earnest attempt to 
embody the scenes of the Past, in a series of Historical pictures. It is now four 

(3) 



5v DEDICATION. 

years, siiicp I first attempted this style of writlnfr ; witli a sincere feeling of f;rati- 
tiide to tlie I'ublic ami the Press, who have marked my labours witli an approbation 
too empliatic to be iiiistaljen, I can honestly record tlic fact, tliat my attempts have 
been emincnlly siuTcsst'iil. 

Son)e portion of these Icfjends, were delivered in tlic f)rm of Historical lectures, 
before tJie William Wirt Institute, confessedly one of the lirst literary institutions 
in the land. To the gentlemen of that institution, I shall over remain grateful, 
not only for the success of these legends, but tor tlie uniform kindness and courtesy, 
which marked their intercourse with me. It would be, perhaps, invidious to select 
any one of tlieir body for public notice, but I cannot lot this occasion pass, without 
expressing my sincere regard for S. Snyder Leidy, Esq., whose intellect was 
always dee)>ly interested in tlie annals of our Revolution. I shall always clierish 
among the best memories of my life, my connection with tlie William Wirt 
Institute. 

Other portions of this work were delivered before the Institute of the Revolution : 
Messrs. JeflVics and Dickson, of tliat association, will ever be remembered for their 
kind endeavors in my behalf 

Nor can I in lliis dedication, be so forgetful of truth and gratitude, as to omit the 
name of A. Henry Diller, Esq., who for live years, has been my unswerving friend, 
and to whom I stand indebted for the flattering success df my illustrations of tlie 
Revolution. 

la conclusion, I may state without the imputation of vanity, that these Histori- 
cal pictures, their pnrpase and their style, beauties and defects, are the results of 
my endeavors for five years past, to delineate in nil its tiil!nes.s, "the time^ tliat 
tried men's souls." 

Not only W'asliington and his Generals, have I attempted to delineate in these 
Legends, but it has been my purixise, to picture the scenes that went before the 
Revolution, togelJier with tlie heroic deeds of the Authors, Soldiers, and Statesmen 
of '7(5; the patriotism of tlie humblest freeman, has been as dear to me, for tJie 
purposes of illustration, as the moral grandeur of Washington, or the chivalric 
daring of I a Fayette. Some of the brightest gleams of jxietry and romance, that 
illumine our history, or the history of any other land and age, I have endeavored to 
embody, in those (xiges of tlio present work, which relate to the deeds of the Hero- 
Women of the Revolution. 

^^■ith these iiitmductory remarks, I submit to the public, ond at the same thnc, 
de<licafe to yon — WAsiiiMnoN .\nd his Generals, as illustrated in the Legends 

OF THE Ri:voi.vrioN. 

Vour friend, 

GEORGE LIFPARD. 
Philada. — District of Penn, March 15, 1847. 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

BY REV. C. CHAUNCEY BURR. 

" What have wo here, Horatio ? 
"Why a mad genius, my Lord. 
Heareti forefend ! then all our sina will be in the mouth of the town-crier hefore a 
twelve-montK" Oi^ Play. 

A PRETTY story enough is related of the wild boy of Newstead Abbey, who, by 
the death of the grandson of an old man at Corsica, was left with the title of lord. 
On hearing of tliis, George ran up to his motlier and asked if she perceived any 
difference in him since he was made lord, as he could perceive none in himself. 
The ne.xt morning, when his name was called out in school, it came with the title 
of Dominus prefi.\ed to it. Unable to give the usual answer, " adsum," he stood 
abashed before the comic gaze of his schoolfellows, and at last burst into tear.-*. 
But what could the title of Dominus do for that talisinanic genius, slumbering 
there in the soul of young Byron ! It is like planting May-weeds round Trajan's 
column. I take the title of Genius to be altogether higher than this " Dominus." 
That title cnmc down fresh out of Heaven. In that high heraldry, it means some- 
what greater tlian these poor things we call lords, cabinets, kings, or what else 
belongs to that accident of birtli or fortune. 

The very name Genius signifieth original, unacquired gifts, born gifts ; fi-oni 
tlie Latin of " gignnr" to be burn ; or older still, from the Greek of "geitnao," 
to generate, to produce. Hence there is a pleonasm in the fashionable editorial 
phrase " original genius." Genius is originality. Talent is the fruit of industry ; 
Genius of birth. The one judges, combines, arranges, compares ; the otlier pro- 
duces, invents. A man of talents may be a good historian, a commentator, a gram- 
marian ; only a man of genius can be a poet, a painter, or statuary. 

Gcnins is greater than talent. Which do we count most worthy of admiration, 
the Jenisca which receives seventy tributary rivers to make up its own current, 
or the mightier Nile, flowing from an unIuiov\Ti source receiving to its waters but 
eleven nameless streams, and at length pouring itself out through seven awful 
mouths into the astonished ocean ! Not unlike this is Genius ; a strange wild 
current, bursting up from invisible fountains in the man ; rushing on swift, unrest- 



ii INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

ing, copious, a hroad right royal river, into tlie ' sea of life and love unknown, 
without a bottom and witliout a shore.' All other men's liopcs and fears, tcara 
and smiles float away like bubbles on tlial tide. After all, the history of the 
world is but a record of the few great men that have been here. In one 'view at 
least I see it tints. In history the mass are notliing, whatever great sacred thing 
they may be in the ever toiling fact of e.xistence. They have no name on earth 
beyond tiieir brcatliing hour. The poetry, chivalry, science of the world, what 
have we had to do witli these, except to sing the songs, fight the battles, and read 
the discoveries of the great masters ? 

And then, in tliis our time, we hear enough of pity, sighs, and very pious con- 
dolence for the fate of genius. We are told there is so nmch of it which could 
never make itself known, pent up in .some cobbler's brain, or cordwaincr's shop, 
hcUl down by poverty, circumstances ; and its great speech hushed in tlie coarse 
din of toil. I'uor Genius to wear itself out hewing wood, drawing water, it may 
tie in measuring tape and bobbin ; and then to sink down so inglonously into the 
cold grave at last, and be covered up very much like a dog I Ah, it is very mel- 
ancholy to see tliis glorious God-gift of genius creeping through life, and creeping 
out of it again, at such a poor funeral tune. All tliis will do very well to tickle 
the ears of bol;bin measurers and counter jumpers : but it is false, nevertheless. 
No genius ever went through life thus. 

Look at that boy at Stratford-on-Avon ! what of him 1 A very dirty, obscure, 
uninteresting looking lad ; the rascally little deer-stealer of his native village — 
who cures for him 1 He will teach you to care for him. He will teach this 
whole world to be still, that he may speak to it. 

Shakspcare is in him ! The immortal fires of Genius are there, deep down in 
the soul of that despised and ragged deer-stealer, and his name shall be Shakspeare 
ringing in all the earth. 

Poverty has no power upon a soul like that What can circumstances do for 
it 1 It is greater tlian circumstances. 

Look at Mohammed ; born in the desert, coming up to manhood without a 
book, and without a teaclicr. But will he submit to circumstances, to die and be 
forgotten in tliut siindy solitude 1 Never ; there is genius in him ; and that can as 
well be hoard from the rocks of Mount Hara as from the vales of Piedmont 
' They tell me tliis man is an impostor. It may bo so : but then his imposture 
(if you will commit so great a wrong upon an honest fanatic) has done more for 
a greater number of the human race than the truth of any other man born within 
tliese twelve centuries. His awful "No by all.\" has shook a thou.sand idols into 
dust His holy " alla acbar ! alla acbar !" has built, in the wild waste of Arab 
hearts, a shrme where God is worshipped. 

This world has not yet forgotten Robert Burns ; nor will it while the stars shine- 
that noble peasant, who came out from behind his plough, on the mountain's 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. ill 

side, and stood with brow unabashed in the presence of royal splendor, for he felt 

that 

" The rank is bul the guinea's stamp; 
The man's the goud for a' that." 

And defying the circumstances of writing in the provincial dialect of a rude 
northern land, still made himself the immortal representative of a nation's intellect. 
It will be a long- time before circumstances will make a Robert Burns. Circum- 
stances have made small men enough : but great men miike circumstances. 

What circumstances called out " Rare old Ben Jonson"' — rougli, Iiardy, terrible 
old Ben Jonson, from whose wild elegant muse even Jlilton caught inspiration f 
Why the circumstances that were polite enough to call this man out were those 
of a regularly bred brick-layer, witli poverty enough to make life a desperate tug 
withal for hmi. Blake what you will of the circumstances : enough for me that 
he came out, and wrote " Alchemist," " Volpono," and others by which the world 
will never forget tlie rugged old bard and wit of Shakspeare's time. 

Who called out Franklin, that son of the soap-boilerl Doubtless tlioso envious 
friends who ridiculed the first efforts of his genius. Peradventure those three 
rolls of baker's bread he eat in the streets of Philadelphia to save himself from 
starvation. No, there is genius in that homeless, straggling boy ; and when that 
is spoken we have said that he will go out himself: when that is told it is re- 
vealed that philosophy is to appear in the sky of Columbia. Soap-boiling, starva- 
tion, or what you please, that boy will some day come out and snatch the light- 
nings from the Iieaven, to weave himself a fame less perishable than the ancient 
thunderer of Olympus. 

How came John Keats out, that melancholy youth of whom Shelly was proud 
to sing 

" Till the future dares 
Forget the past, his fate and fame shall be 
An echo and a light unto eternity." 

Whose name is embalmed by his own " Endymion," where he sings in tones of 
deathless rapture 

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever." 

The circumstance attending him was a birth at a livery-stable in Moorfields. No 
matter : there was genius in this poor child of the livery-stable too, and he has 
written " Hyperion," and the " Eve of St. Agnes." The soul that has Hyperion 
and the Eve of St. Agnes in its core is as well born in a stable as a palace. Tliat 
soul, once born, defies all circumstances ; will work its way through all poverty 
and all scorn, into immortality. 

There is a kind of men in this world that occasions make : these are plenty 
cnougli too, such as they are. We call them talented — men of capacity ; be- 



iv INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

c lusc tlipy can judge accurately, combine and con,i)are witli facility, write good 
histories, good dictionaries — be learned compilers of other men's thoughts. Al- 
together nnlikc this is genius. That will seldom .stop to write histories. Its tJisk, 
rather, is to create tlic events out of wliich all histories are written. Its tlioughts 
spring out of itself, as Minerva from tlic head of Jupiter: thoughts still, and va.st, 
and solemn, like the midnight of the stars — thoughts that rise and set like suns — 
that blaze, and burn, and avalanche along the world until their mighty roar blends 
with the music of eternity. 

Go back, if you will, after those men, Tasso, Alficri, Dante, Petrarch, Raphael, 
Camoens, Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderon, Marlowe, Congrcve, Klopstock, 
Correggio, and find also the circumstance tliat made them. As well may you at- 
tempt todig the soul out of a poem with spades and picka.xes, or measure the hea- 
vens with yard-sticks, as to seek after these souls among the tilings called circum- 
stances. 

Somehow those men continually remind us of the author of these Legends. He 
seems to have been born with that same restle-ss, heaving, fiery heart; the wild, 
earnest, truthftil sincerity withal, that has marked Genius in all ages. In the ear- 
liest boyhood, tlirown upon his own resources — cheated by pious villains — buffetted 
by poverty — his soul at length kindles up under the cold winds that blow upon it, 
into flames that flash evermore in the face of the world. He was a sickly intense 
kind of a boy, like poor Dante, perpetually haunted by an idea of his own mortal- 
ity. No one could see in him the Author of the most entertaining and truthful 
book, on the most interesting portion of American History. No one could dis- 
cover how he, with his slender girlish frame, should one day stand so upright and 
sullen before heaven and earth, flinging such charges and wrongs in the lace of 
this lying social state of the world — this\ast machine, called civilization, out of 
which Mammon grinds blood, and coins it drop by drop into gold. It is plain 
enough tliat his eye caught first on this black side of tlie picture. The thought 
poured gall into him ; it whipt his soul up into a premature manliood. The 
dwarfed, shrivelled, wretched masses every where lay stretched out before his im- 
agination as so many millions of luinger-tliroats, gurgling in death-agonies 
shrieking ujnvards through the crannies of their lazar-liouse of woe, for 
pity, for knowledge, for guidance, until despair quivers in his face, and burns 
every fibre of his soul into action. All these millions of wrongs, seen in cor- 
porations, in vast idle wealtli, in bankrupt speculation, in genteel prostitution, 
in barbarous theologies and divinity shambles, mount his heart, and shriek 
through his brain, in many a headlong torrent of scorn, and bitterness, and woe. 
The editors (I may not say critics) called it writing immoral books. He tliought 
it was tearing off the mantle from this most seeming arch-angel, to lay bare tlie 
cloven foot that sneaked beneath it. He tliought it was laying the a.xe at the root 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. v 

of the tree. lie tliought with Alexander Pope, that vice to be hated need but to 
be seen. There was truth in this too ; though it was not all truth. 

There are such writers as deify lust, exalt harlotry into queenly poesy, and, as 
we may say, sing the devil's tunes with sucli bursts of God's music between whiles, 
that our nicest ears shall hardly tell whicli is from above, or wliich from beneath. 

But I think no good fair critic will place Mr. Lippard in tlie list of tliese writers. 
lie never speaks praisingly of any lust ; but far otherwise. There is indeed an un- 
relenting bitterness, nay, an almost savage ferociousness in his manner of strip- 
ping vice to its bare bones. Of all his writings, however, I believe the " Quaker 
City is the only book of his that has fallen under this ban of being immoral. For 
one I could never see into the strict justice of tlie charge. Undoubtedly it is a 
book to be censured by men of cold and chastised fancy, wlio dwell only m the 
little harmless abstractions of artificial life. They will blame the character of 
" Devil Bug ;" and so do we : but the real question with the just and wise critic 
is, whetlier society has Devil Bugs in it; and has our author drawn such a 
character truly to the life ! I must hold him a sad kind of a critic who e.\pects a 
devil bug, in a place like Monk Ilall, to talk like the amiable St. John in- his Isle 
of Patmos. Was it not Lord Byron who said he could not, for the life of him, 
make the devil talk like a clergyman ] I think, perhaps, tlic noble lord may have 
paid the profession an undeserved compliment ; but the critic, notwitlistanding, 
may get a morsel from his civility. The novelist's task, with this Quaker City, 
was not to show what it ought to be, but rather what it is. lie came not to lie 
— to praise a skulking servility, an insane worship of wealth, to christianize our 
wine-buts, and call universal libertinism by the genteeler name of gallantry ; but 
rather with a thunderous no against all quackeries, pretensions, and sins in high 
places. Why should the novelist be held down witli an obligation to truckle to 
lithe mongers'! What is all pious mummery to him, who sees that the white- 
washed worshippers are sordid and selfish, and mean — hard and strong upon the 
weak, exacting the uttermest farthing of hopeless penury — clutching with avarici- 
ous insanity at the little metal dollar while the immortal man is left, with bloody 
muscles, and a broken heart, to die like a dog upon his straw ! What is all the 
tragi-comic face acting to him, upon whose soul already flash the hot fever- 
flames, from the depraved and groaning heart of humanity ! What has he to do 
with all these conventional lies, but to hurry them off to death and doom, under 
the tread and crasli of his most truthful exposure ] It were as just to hold the 
health ofiicer, who advertises a neighborhood as infected with contagion, responsi- 
ble for the ravages of death there, as to blame the novelist for his faithful exposure 
of the secret heart of society. Nor has society or true religion any thing to fear 
from the truthful portraiture of a bad character in a romance. No preacher, in 
this Philadelphia, can by any anathemas from his pulpit, make Devil Bugs appear 
half so odious, as they already appear in tlie pages of the " Quaker City." Lot 



vi INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

the niisor, tlio liliortiiie, llm knave rend timt dream of Devil Bug, and listen to the 
mad lioi-rid imisic of that " Orchestra of lull," and then say what part of it docs 
not cut tliroiifjli his soul like a kniful On which page of the "Quaker City" is 
lurit and thlscliiMid eiildcri/.cd ? No, the fiuilt of this book is not laxity of morals. 
It rather visits the sediiciT and all transgression with too severe and merciless a 
punishment. Kvery page shrieks with nnrclenting vengeance against the doer 
of wrong, whotlicr he he merchant, banker, good pious parson, or clerk, vvlio de- 
bauches on Ids master's money. 

It is not a tiling strange to me that the Uev. Dr. Pyncs, and Fitz-Cowles should 
cry out against .such a book. It is very much such a thing to them as the rope to 
tlie felon's nock. Ever since I have seen how this book has agitated the tender 
conscience of society — ever since I have lieard the groans of tlio press about it, I 
have felt convinced that its sin is its Inilh. Had it been false it would ha\c died 
from the jn-ess. Without great truth, and great literary merit, it could not have 
lived to go through these twenty editions in the little space of three years. 

The author, who succeeds like that, can well enough allbrd to forgive the critics. 
He must content himself to be sulhciently abused to give a geu'crous variety to 
what of life there is lor him. Ignorance will grin, and bigotry make faces, as 
puppy dogs in the streets bark at the man who walks faster than the rest. But 
never mind, if so that he keep faithfully on, he shall make the oars of bigotry, and 
wl>at else opposes him, tingle again. Not any genius will ever be silenced by tlie 
clamor of the fool, who would ])ut it in strait-jackets, make it say mass, subscribe 
to thirty-nine articles, read dicipUnes and confessions of faith, and work all day 
long in tlie dull tread-mill of the schools : never. It will leave all creed mongers 
and lilliput-s like so many cliattcring skeletons, to dig away in the scum and 
spawn of a thousand years, that lie rotting upon the dead bosom of the past : a 
mystic hand writing gleams there upon liio solid dome of heaven ; genius will go 
on to translate tlie fire-ciphers; dig who will after the grave clothes of the dead 
yesterday.s. His task is not to write immoral books neither : but to hold up in the 
face of the world, a picture of what life is. If gross and sensual men can see in 
this picture only tlic gross cliaraeters there, whoso fault is that ! Would you have 
a painter who is sent to sketch pamlcnionium, steal a picture of paradise, and call 
that the metropolis of hell ! The devils might enjoy the compliment of seeing 
their faces in paradise ; hut what would the angels say ! Nay what would the critics 
Bay of the skill and truth of such a painter. Why then by a vanity and fiilsehood 
not less ridiculous do you wish the novelist, who paints a great, proud, corrupt, 
mammon-worshipping city to give you a picture only of saints and apostles ? Kis 
own soul would smite him in the tiicc evermore when he had prostituted his pen 
to such lying. Such writers are plenty enough who truckle to the vanity of fops 
and wealth-mongers. Their books are plenty enough t(xi, on their publishers 
shelves, where they lie in mould and cob-webs, looked into only by tlic moths that 



• INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. vii 

eat them. "No fiilso man ever got a deliverance eloquent enough to captivate a 
single heart. His tliought-s arc niuHled lilic a dead bell, and instead of tlie clear 
distinct vibrations wliicli make tlie lieavens ring, there is but the dumb underbreatli 
which every body Imovvs to be artiticial and unnatural." 

Words witli souls in them is what wo want : words that go out like cannon 
balls agahist all falsity in cliurch or state. Rigid, unsparing, outspeakmg truth- 
fulness — rougli and rugged as a nortlicrn land-scape — that is what we want. Your 
novelists who would feed us on sugar-plums ; or , amuse us by a harmless cock- 
robin and puss-in-boots literature, may tor auglit wo know have a mission to the 
nurseries, with the cats and cradles ; but not any mission to manhood. Neither in 
literature, nor in jwlitics, nor in morals, nor in philosophy, nor m religion did such 
writers ever eflcct a revolution for good or evil. For revolutions we want Lutliors, 
who will throw tlioir ink-stands at tlie devil's head, and go to Leipzig though it 
rain Duke Georges for nine days continually. And these true earnest khid of 
men are the only records tliat Time leaves behind him. But your great mass, of 
what are called " moral writers," your pious pretenders, and f;ishion-\vorshi])pers, 
your effeminate eulogizers of genteel fools, and scheming bigots — these will 
perish and rot away, like the flies of the summer shambles. Not thus will it be 
with the men, who, with words of tire, have depicted your sins : cry out as you 
will against them, brand tliem witli whatever anathema — tlieir \s ritings are the 
coin and currency of truth, stamped witli its image and superscription, so that tlioy 
will last forever. What has the sneer of the- critics done against the " (iuakor 
City !" twenty editions answer. It is better to ask what has the " Quaki.'r City" 
done to the critics ? Let a paragrapli or two from the J^ok itself answer. 

" Devil Bug was silent. Tlie .shouts of the revelers in tlie adjoining cellar grew 
more loud and uproarious, yet he heeded tliem not. Deep in tlie heart of tliis 
monster, like a ilowor blooming liom the very corruption of the grave, the memory 
of tliat fair young girl, wlio eigliteen years ago, had sought the slielter of Monk- 
Ilall, lay hidden, fast entwined around the life-cords of his deformed soul. 
"Oil, tell us, ye who in the hours of infancy have laid upon a mother's bosom, 
who have basked m a father's smile, wlio have had wealth to bring you comfort, 
luxury, and a home — wlio have sunned in tlie light of religion, as you grew to- 
wards manhood, and been warmed into intellectual life by the blessing of education ; 
Oh, tell us, ye who with all those gifts and mercies flung around you by the hand 
of God, have after all refused his laws, and rotted in your very lives, with the foul 
pollution of libertinism and lust; tell us, who shall find most mercy at the bar of 
avenguig justice — you, with your prostituted talents, gathering round your guilty 
souls, so many witnesses of your utter degradation — or Devil-Bug, door-keeper of 
Monk-Hall, in all his monstrous deformity of body and intellect, yet with one re- 
deeming memory, gleaming like a star from tlie chaos of his mind !" * * * 

"And this is tlie great Quaker City, which every Sunday lifts its demure face to 



Yiil INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. * 

Heaven, and, with church-burning, Girard-CoUege, and Bank-robbery, hanging 
around its skirts, tells Almighty God, that it has sent missionaries to the isles of 
the sea, to the Ilindty), the Turk, and llie Hottentot; that it feels for tlio spiritual 
wants of the far-off nations to an cxtont lliat cannot be measured by words, while 
it has not one single throb of pity fur tiic poor, who starve, rot, and die, within its 
very eye-sijiht !" 

That is plaiii talk enough. Tlicre is a kind of heroism, we may say soldierly 
bravery in such writing, that makes cowards tremble again. Hypocrites will not 
like it, neither. What should cowards, hypocrites and bigots do but hate a book 
that continually thunders in their cars such words as those — "Bribery sits on the 
judicial bench, and a licentious mob administers justice with tlie knife and the 
torch. In the pulpit crouchosgrim Superstition, preaching a God, whose mercy is 
one incarnate threat, whose beneficence is written on the grave-stone of a wrecked 
world !" 

Or, if you will, let us hear Luke Harvey rail a little — "Justice in the Quaker 
City ! Suppose the Almighty God should hold a court one day, and try the justice 
of the Quaker City, by his impartial law ! What a band of witnesses would come 
thronging to that solemn bar; come into court, old Stephen Girard, come into court 
with your \\\\l ii\ hand — that will which bniiueuthcd your enormous wealth to the 
white male orphans of the past, the present ol' generations yet unborn ; come into 
court and te.stiry ! What say you of Quaker City justice ? Is your College built 1 
Has a single orphan been clothed, or educated at your expense, or with your mo- 
ney ! Come into court, widows and orphans, beggared by the hands of bank di- 
rectors — come into court ia your rags and misery ; come and testify : What think 
you of justice, as she holds the scales in Philadelphia ! Come into court Religion, 
and point to your churches in ruins ! Come into court, Humanity, and point to the 
blackened ashes of the Asylum, the School-house and tlie Hall !" 

There are some crumbs that will be lound hard eating enough for the seducer 
also. 

"In some old txxik of mysticism and superstition, I have read this wild legend, 
which mingling as it does the terrible with the grotesque, has still its meaning and 
its moral. 

"In the sky, far, far above the earth — so tlie legend runs — there hangs an Awful 
Bell, invisible to mortal eye, which angel hands alone may toll, which is never 
tolled save when the Unpardonable sin is committed on earth, and then its judg- 
ment peal rings out like the blast of the archanijors trumpet, breaking on tlie ear 
of the Criminal, and on his ear alone, with a sound that freezes his blood with 
horror. Tiio peal of the bell, hung in the azure de|)ths of space, announces to tlie 
Guilty one, that he is an outcast from God's mercy forever tliat his Crime can 
never be pnrdoned ; while the throne of theEternal endures; that in the hour of 
Death, his soul will be darkened by the hopeless prospect of an eternity of wo ; 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. ix 

wo without limit, despair without hope ; the torture of the never-dying worm, and 
the unquenchable flame, forever, and forever. 

"Reader 1 Did the sound of the judgment bell, pealing with one awful toll, from 
the invisible air, break over the soul of the Libertine, as ui darluiess and in silence, 
he stood shuddering over the victim of his Crime 1 
"If in the books of the Last Day tliere should he found written down but Orie 
unpardonable crime, that crime will be Imown as the foul wrong, accomplished in 
the gaudy Rose Chamber of Monk-hall, by the wretch who now stood trembling 
in the darlaiess of the place, while his victim lay senseless at his feet." 

No doubt a large book, crowded full of this kind of sentiment, will be found very 
immoral to the moral feelings of the common knaves, and libertines of a great 
city. No doubt that the more refined sensualists, the Dr. Pynes and patent gos- 
pelers, in their libidinous taste, will pass by all these scorchuig rebukes, and fasten 
on the voluptuous picture of Dora Livingston's bosom. 

No doubt the hypocrite, the swindler, the monied knave, the Catholic-hater, the 
heathen-saver, and the despiser of the poor at home, will find enough to condemn 
in these pages. No doubt that fat and festered profligacy in the senate, the bench, 
the pulpit and the bar will cry out under the terrible lash of indignant and insulted 
genius pleading with the injured masses to arise and resent their wrongs. The 
work of genius would indeed go for naught if profligacy did not cry out. But why 
need good honest men take up the bigot's watch-word of alarm ! JMr. Lippard has 
never once aimed his envenomed shaft at any good brave man, in any profession or 
post of life. There is indeed somewhat of idolatry in the extravagant worship 
which he pays, both in his writings and private life, to all true great men. His 
Bcorn has been directed at none but the cunning knaves, who have smuggled them- 
selves into professions and posts of honor, very much as lizards may crawl into the 
lion's den, and set up to be lions too. 

These have found poor mercy at his hands. Lot us make room in this place for 
one more extract. 

"The State House clock had just struck eight, when amid, the gay crowds that 
thronged Ciiesnut Street, might be discerned one poor wan-faced man, who strode 
Badly up and down the pavement in front of a jeweller's window. The night was 
bitter cold, but a tattered round-about and patched trowse'rs, constituted his scanty 
apparel. He had not been shaven for several days, and a thick beard gave a wild 
appearance to his lank jaws and compressed lips. Ills face was pale as a mort- 
cloth, but his eye shone with that clear wild light that once seen can never be 
forgotten. There was Famine in the unnatural glea,m of that eye. His much- 
worn hat was thrown back from his pale forehead, and there, in the lines of that 
frovming brow you might read the full volume of wrong and want, which the op- 
pressors of this world write on the faces of the poor. 
"Up and down the cold pavement he strode. He looked fi-om side to side for a 



X INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

glance of pity. Tliere was no humanity in the eyes that met liis gazi\ Fashion- 
o'lo Dumcs going to the Opera, Merchiints in broad-cloth rolurnini^ from the 
countiii^i^-house, Bank Directors hurrying to their homes, godly preachers wending 
to tiieir Churches, tlieir fuce.i full of sobriety and their liearts burninjj with enmity 
to tlie Popo of Rome : These nil were there, on that crowded |)avcnient. But 
pity tor the Poor man, « lio with Famine written on. his forehead and blazing from 
his eyes, strode up and down, in front of the Jeweller's gaudy win low ? Not one 
BoliUiry throb ! 

" No br(>!ul, no fire," muttered the Mechanic aa he looked to the sky with a 
dark scowl on his brow. " No bread, no fire for two whole days. I can bear it, 
but God ! My child, my child '.'' 

Witii the tattered cull' of his coat sleeve, he wipeti away a salt tear from his 
clieek. 

" God I" ho fiercely muttered between his set teeth. " Is there a God ! Is lie 
just ! Then why have tliese people fine clothes and warm homes, when I, /, with 
honest hanils, have no bread to cat, no fire to warm me ]" 

Your pardon, [lious people, your pardon tor tlie blasphemy of this starving 
wretch ! Starvation you know is a grim sceptic, a very Infidel, a doubter and a 
Bcofl'or ! 

" Two days without broad or fire !" he nnittered and strode wearily along tlie 
street. Suddenly a hall-muttered cry of delight escaped from his lips. A splendid 
carriage, drawn by two blood horses, witli a coat of arms gleaming on ita panels, 
met his gaze. It was the work of an instant for the Mechanic to spring up behind 
this carriage, while a siniling-laced elderly gentleman sat alone by himself with- 
in. And away tlie horses dashed, until tliey reached a large mansion u» one of 
the most aristocratic s<iuares of tlic city. The smiling-faced elderly gentleman 
came out of the carriage, and after telling James, the coachman, to be very care- 
fill of tlie horses, he took his night-key from his pocket, and entered the mansion. 

'•He t'ailed three days ago," said the Mechiuiic, glancing at the mansion witli a 
grim smile, as he leapt down from llie coach. " The Bank of which he is Presi- 
dent broke a fortnight since ! Ha, ha !" 

Anil with a hollow laui:;h he pointed to tlie retreating co;ich and then to the 
mansion, fivm « hose curtained windows tlie blaze of lights dashed out upon tlie 
street. 

" //(• is the President of the Bank that broke, and yet has his coach and horses, 
his house, his servants and his wuies. I hud sL\ hundred uollais in that Bank, 
and yet have not a crust of bread to eat. I *s)K)se tliis must be what tliey call 
Jiislice!" 

And with that same mocking laugh he strwlo up the marble steps of the Rink 
President's Palace. 

" I will make anotlier eftbrt," he whispered. " And if that fkils Ha I God 



INTRODUCTOmr ESSAY. xi 

will take care of my child. As for myself—lia .' ha ! I 'spose tlie over-seers of the 
Poor will bury me !" 

The door of the Rank President's Palace was ajar. The Mechanic pushed it 
open and entered. A ruddy glow of light streamed through the parlor door-way 
into the hall. Walking boldly forward, tlie Mechanic paused at tlie door and 
l<X)ked in, Oli, such fine furniture, a splendid glass above the mantel, ottomans, 
a sota, a gorgeous carpet, and sdk curtains drooping along from die windows — 
magnificent tiirniture ! 

" And he is the President of tlie Broken Bank." 

Mr. Job Joneson, tlie President of the Bank which had just failed for only one 
million dollars, sate writing at a table in the centre of tliat gorgeous parlor. He 
was a pleasant man, witli a round face and small eyes, a short neck and a white 
cravat, corpulent paunch and a showy broad-cloth coat. Altogether Job Joneson, 
Esq. was one of your good citizens, who subscribe large suras to tract societies, 
and sport velvet-cushioned pews in church. He did not perceive tlie entrance of 
the Mechanic, but having taken his seat in a hurry, was making some memoranda 
in his note book by tlie light of the astral lamp. 

"Twenty dollars to the Society for promoting Bible Christianity at Rome," 
thus he soliliKjuized. " Good idea, that. Be in all the Patent-Gospel papers. 
Two hundred dollars for jewelry ; Mrs. Joneson is very extravagant Fifty 
dollars for tiirniture broken by my sou Robert who is now at College. Bad boy 
tliat ! One tliousand dollars for a piano, grand piano for my daughter Corinae 

Ha! Hum! Who's tliere ! What do you want !" 

The Mechanic advanced, and taking off his hat, approached the table. It was 
a fine contrast ; the unshaven Mechanic, and the Bank President ; on this side of 
the table rags and want, on that side, broadcloth and plenty ; here a face with 
Famine written on its every line ; there a visage redolent of venison steaks and 
turtle soup. 

" Your business, Sir 1" 

"Do you not know me, Mr. Joneson ! I am John Davis." 

" Indeed ! You shingled a house for me last summer. \Miy you are sadly 
changed !" 

The lip of tlie Mechanic trembled. 

"I was a little better- looking last summer, I believe," he said, "But Mr. Jone- 
son, I have called upon you in order to ascertain, whether there is any hope of 
my ever getting any portion of my money from the ***** jj^nk I" 

" Not one cent !" said the Bank President, taking out his watch and playingf 
witli the seals. 

" I worked very hard for that money, Mr. Joneson. I've frozen in the winter'^ 
chill, and broiled in the summer's heat for that money, Mr. Joneson." 



xii INTRODUCTORY ESSAY, 

" My dear fellow, you talk to me as if I could help it," said Mr. Joncson, 
gazing intently upon tlie motto engraven on his seal, 'Up with the Bible.' 

" And now Mr. Joneson, I am without work ; my money is gone," continued 
John Davis, s])cakiiig in a low tone that God's angels could not li»teu to without 
tears, "ily child lays at tho point ot'dcatli, — " 

" How can I help Ihat. my gotnl fellow .' I am sorry that your child is sick 
— ^but can I help it .'" said the Bank President in the tone of witlioring politeness. 

" I have neither bread nor medicine to give her," said Davis as his grey eye 
blazed with a strange light. " There lias been no fire in her room for two 
days—" 

"Get work," said Uie Bank President, in a short decided tone. 

" Where .'" And Davis extended his lean hands, wliile a quiet look of despair 
Btamped every line of iiis countenance. 

" Anywliere ! Everywhere ! You don't mean to say that an able-l)odied man 
like you can't get work in tiiis enlightened city of Philadelphia ? Pshaw !" 

" I have tried to get work for two long weeks, and am now without a crust of 
bread !" And John gazed steadily in Jonesou's face. 

" Well then, whcre's your cretlit ! You don't mean to say tliat an industrious 
mechanic like you are, or ought to be, can't obtain credit in tliis cnterprizing city 
of Philadelphia !" 

" There is no imprisonment for debt," said John witli a sickly smile. " No 
poor man gets ' trust' now-a-days." 

" Well, my poor fellow,! am sorry for yon, sorry that our Bank failed to meet 
its liabilities, sorry that you invested your little money in it, very sorry ! But 
d'ye see ! I have an engagement, and must go." 

The corpulent Bank President rose from his seat, inserted bis watch in its fob, 
put on his great coat, and moved toward the door. 

Davis stood as if rooted to that gorgeous carpet He made an eft'ort to speak 
but his tongue produced but a hollow sound. Then his lip trembled, and his 
quivering fingers were pressed nervously against his breast. 

" Come,my fellow, I pity your case, but I can't help it. There is a meeting of 
the Patent-Gospel Association to-night, and I must go. You see my fellow, tlie 
Pope of Rome must be put down, and I must go an' help do it." 

Davis advanced toward the corpulent Bank President 

" lyxik hero, Mr. Joneson," he said in that husky whisper, which speaks from 
the tliin lips of want " My hands are hardened to bone by work. Look at these 
fingers. D'ye see how cramped and crooked they are .' ^Vell, Mr. Joneson, for 
six long years Iiave I slaved for that six hundred dollars. And why ! Because I 
wanted to give my wife a home in our old age, because I wished to give some 
schoolin' to my child. This money, Mr. Joneson, I placed in your hands last 
summer. You said you'd invest it in stock, and now, now. Sir, my wife has been 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. xiii 

dead a month, my child lies on her dyin' Ijed without hrcad to eat, or a drop of 
medicine to still a single doath-pain. An' I come to you, and ask you for my 
money, au' you tell me that the Bank is broke ! Now, Mr. Joneson, what I want 
to ask \ou is this — " 

Ilis voice trembled, and he raised his hands to his eyes for a single instant 

" Will you lend ine souie money to buy some wood and some bread ?" 

" VVhy Davis, really you are too hard for me," said tlie round-faced Joneson, 
moving a stop nearer to tlie threshhokl. There was a supercilious curl about his 
fat lip, and a sleepy contempt about hi.s leaden eyes. 

" Will you," cried Davis, his voice rising into a whispered shriek, " Will you 
lend me one dollar .'" 

" Davis, Davis, you're too hard for me," said the Bank President, jingling the 
silver in his pocket with his gouty hands. " Tiie fact is, were I to listen to all 
such appeals to my feelings, I would be a beggar to-morrow — " 

He strode quickly over the threshhold as he spoke, 

" John," he cried to the servant who was passing through the hall, " If any- 
body calls for rae, you can say that I have gone to the special meeting of 
the American Patent-Gospel Association. And look ye,John, tell James to have 
the coach ready by twelve to-night : one of the Directors gives a party, and I 
must be there ; and when tliis jterson goes out, you can put down the dead- 
• latch." 

Having thus spoken, the Bonk President walked quietly to the front door of the 
mansion, and in a moment was passing along the crowded street. John Davis 
stood in the centre of that gorgeous parlor, silent and motionless as a figure carved 
out of solid rock 

" Come,Mister, as the gentleman's gone, I'spose you may as well tortle!" said 
a harsh voice. John Davis looked up, and beheld a fat-faced servant in livery, 
motioning him toward tlie front door. 

Without picking his hat from the carpet, John walked slowly from the house. 

Meanwhile Job Joneson, Esq. passing with a dignified waddle through the 
crowded street, reached the corner of Si.\th and Chesuut streets, where the out- 
line of the State House arose into the clear, cold, star-lit sky. 

A hand was laid gently on his shoulder, Joneson turning quickly round, be- 
held a man of some thirty years, whose slovenly dress and red nose betrayed his 
profession. He was a tip-staff of one of the Courts of Justice. 

" Beg pardon. Sir, your name Joneson, Sir 1 There is a case to be tried in 
Court to-morrow, and you are summoned to appear as a witness. Here's the 
Subpoena — " 

Joneson reached forth his hand to grasp the paper, v\ hen the figure of John 
Davis strode quietly between hira and the tip-sta(K 

" And /," shiieked a voice, wild and broken, yet horrible in its slightest tones. 



xiv INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

" And / have a summons for you, also !" The Bank President made an involira- 
tary start as the glare of those maniac eyes flashed u)ion him. " I 8ub|HEiia you, 
you Job Joneson, to iipi)ear at llw Bar of Abnighty God before day-break to- 
morrow !" 

And ho raised one thin hand to Heaven while the otiier rested upon tlie Bank 
Presidcnl's slioiilder. Jone.«n slirunk from tliat toucli — it was like hot lead on 
the bare skin ! 

"I will be there.'" whispered Davis. "There!" And ho waved his tliin 
hands towards the stars. " At tlie Bar of God Almighty before day-break to 
morrow !" 

Tlie Bank President raised liis hands to his eyes with an involuntary gesture. 
When he again looked around, the maniac was gone." 

At his leisure, tlic reader must finish tliis terrible lesson. lie will sec l(ow the 
awful summons of the mad meclianic was re-echoed also by Uic voice of God — 
" before day break to-morrow .'" He will see how every oppressor is surrounded, 
evermore by ministers of veugennco, wlio grip him by tlie UirouL, and willi terrible 
voices demand the forfeiture of tlie broken bond : a pound ofjleah cut out nearest 
the heart ; There is no escape- from the penally. No possible jugglery, no the- 
ological bankruptcy, no patent-gospol roppiitance even, can cheat Heaven of itd 
dread demand. "lie that doclh wrong shall receive for the wrong which he hath 
done," is a thundcr-woid, that shrieks, not aloiio from the Bible of Prophets and 
Apostles, but from the Bible of Nature and of Providence also. Bury his evil 
deeds under mountains of catechisms and prayers if ho will, they roll out of their 
graves, and like hot mvisible devils shall lash him naked through the world. 

That is the moral of the Quaker City also, if the critics had but the insight to 
see it. We can well enough aflbrd to forgive the faults of tliis wild head-long 
kind of book, since it preaches this great truth so well. We may overlook its 
zigzag, fragmentary, quasi — chaotic manner of saying some things, since it uttcra 
so many other things with such surpassing strength and beauty. The reviewer 
who condeiiins indiscriminately so great a Ixxik as tlie Quaker City, will find it 
a special favor to be forgotten by the more truthful critics that will be sure to come 
after him. Tlioy will rank liim evermore with the poor dwarfe who can look 
upon some statue of Olympic Jove, majestic and awful in its beauty, yet turn 
away in disgust from the splendid image, because of some speck which tlieir pig- 
mv eyes have detected on the finger nail. Let us not forget tliis, tliat great 
books are not written for any dwarfs. Little souls, in strait-jackets, are welcome 
enough to their primers, and to their romance even, about the house that Jack 
built ; but who ever asked ihem to turn critics on tlie works of genius ! I con- 
fess that my heart finds a welcome tor tliis head-long honest Quaker City. Not- 
withstanding its hot fiery temper, it will do good. We must look at it, not as a 
work of genius only, but also as a work of reform. It comes not alone to amuse 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XV 

but dreadful, like the song of Agamemnon, to purify. Its wild mad voice has gone 
out every where, over this speculating, mammon-worshipping country. From 
the rock heights of the Aroostook, to the camp-fires of Monterey, its vengeance- 
shrieks are heard, echoing, through the thousand hollow hearts, where idleness 
eats the bread tliat starving industry earns, and pensioned profligacy preaches sub- 
mission to sweet virtue in the name of God. 

You tell me that this book, true enough in the main, is extravagant. Very 
well, tliaiik the extremes into which society everywhere runs for the extrava- 
gance of this book also. It is you who have driven genius out, and compelled it 
to pitch its extravagances against your own ; for thus only can it weigh you up- 
wards, to give a les.son fi'om tlie skies. IIow shall genius be otherwise than ex- 
travagant, while gazing into a wild firmament of gloom — rusliing with its mighty 
fire-wings through this broken fragment of eternity ; where the insane ravings of 
despair lift a horrid din above tlie music-breath of angels, aiul the voice of God ! 
Extravagant indeed : Was not Martin, the brave old monk of Islebcn in Saxony, 
who tlircw his ink-stand at the sooty devil's head, extravagant also! So the devil 
thought. Tliis extriivugance is the bug-bear of little minds ; heed it not. But 
out witli thy thought, loud and seething, like a hot bolt shot from tlie thunderous 
heavens. 

So through all the writings of this man — every page impresses you with the 
feeling tliat a mind of dark terrible strength has just gone that way before you : a 
man in whose deep soul is a power and a spell — an imagination, fancy, and a wild 
utterance, full of awful beauty, fire and love. His " Ladye Annabel" is a splendid 
prose-poem, where horrors congregate with strangest phantoms of truth, madly 
rushing together in a great carnival of love. 

But, Lippard's genius is not all dark and horrible. There is in him too the 
sweetest beauty, flashing out betimes like the dancing aurora up the winter sky. 
Even amid all the war-horrors of" Blanche of Brandy wine" we shall see how the 
author's soul delights in the images of beauty and purity that seem to flit ever 
before him, in the midst of darkest delineations. Our whole literature does not 
coiitain more beautiful sketches of female character than Lippard has given us in 
Rose, Blanche, and the Lady Isidore. All that a pure man could desire in wife, 
mother or sister, he will find in this book, made living and beautiful in the lives 
of these characters. Isidore we shall love forever. Love, not alone for her 
" faultless limbs," and beautiful bosom, shaded by a veil of dark waving liair : but 
we sliall love her also that she was " magnificently beautiful, brave, and loving." 
With her, we shall all feel that "Beauty and tenderness and truth have gone 
/(«/«(." There is religion and poetry in our author's fiirevvcll to Isidore. 

"Come, let us bid her farewell. Come let us kneel in the softened light and 
twine our liands in the glossy waves of her dark hair, and close her eyes and lips, 
with kisses, let us gently dispose those faultless limbs in the quiet altitude of death 



XVi INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

— for to-morrow, nli, tlio cotVin, the gravo, the falling clod ! Let us smootli the 
black liair in lengthened waves, but do not close that bosom from the light. Let 
it gleam in tlic sun, until the very last moment ; for it is pure, for tlioughLs born 
of God and eternal as heaven, once Ibund a home witliin those globes of snow. 
Farewell, Isidore, we leave you now forever. Farewell, Isidore, wo leave your 
face to the grave-worm, your bottom to tJio clod, your soul tti its homo. Farewell, 
brave and beautiful, on your cold brow we drop no tear, lor since the world began, 
it lias been tlie fate of hearts liko yours, to love and break and die. And when 
tlio flowers bloom over your grave, tlio angels of Ciod will kiss tluMii, and fling 
their fragrance like blessings ujum tlie summer air." 

But wo have even now too little space left tor a just notice of tliese legends of 
the Revolution. 

Altogether we take tliis to be the best book tliat lias been written on tliis por- 
tion of our hi.'>tory. In the dull jjopuliir idea ol" iiistoiy, tliis book is not merely a 
history. It is something more. It is a series of battle pictures ; with uU tlie Irutli 
of history in thoni, wliero the heroes are made living, present and visible to our 
senses. Here we do not merely turn over the dead dry facts of Ctener.il Wash- 
ington's battles, as if coldly digging them out of their tomb — but we see the 
living general as ho moves round over the tiehl of glory. We almost hear tlie 
word of his coinmaml. Wo are cpiite sure tliat we see tlie smoke rolling up from 
tlie field of battle, and hear tlie dreadful roar of the cannon, as it spouts its deatli- 
flame in the tlicc of the living and llie dead. Throiigli all we see dashing on the 
wild figure of mad Anthony Wayne, followed with tlic broken battle-cry of Pu- 
laski ; until along the line, and over the field, tlio images of dcatli and terror are 
only hidden from our view by Uic sliroud of smoke and flame. 

Tliero is not a relic of tlio Revolution, in tlie sliapo of an old man or woman, 
within a good hundred miles of the scene, which has not been visited by Jlr. 
Lippard, and their old memories sounded to tl>e bottom, until the last arxl smallest 
fact should be brought up. Not an inch of ground, on tlic old battle-fields, that 
he has not explored. Hardly an old revolutionary neu-sjxiixjr has Ikimi allowed to 
rest in peace ; that too must bo dug from its garret-grave, and stript of its cob-web 
shroud, to satisfy this insatiate iiuiiger lor revolutionary crumbs. 

At last all that survives, eitlier of fact or Ivgcnd, of those battles and battle 
men, is brought to light : painted before us, so tliat we can look upon every feature 
of the perilous times. Painted indeed. Of all the American authors, poets of 
novelists — Lippard comes nearest to tlio painter. So perfect and powerfiil are his 
descriptions. Wliat a magnificent picture might be made of liis "Sunset upon the 
Battlefield." 

" It was sunset upon the field of battle — solemn and quiet sunset. The rich, 
golden light fell over tlie grassy lawn, over tlic venerable fiibric of Chew's house, 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. xvii 

antl over the trees scattered along the field, turning tlieir autiunnal foliage to 
quivering gold. 

"The scene was full of the spirit of desolation, steeped in death, and crimsoned 
in blood. Tiie green lawn — with the soil turned up by the cannon vvlieels, by the 
tramp of war steeds, by the rush of the foernen — was all heaped with ghastly piles 
of dead, whose cold upturned faces shone with a terrible lustre in the last beams 
of the declining sun. 

"There were senseless carcasses, with the arms rent from the shattered body, 
with the eyes scooped from the hollow sockets, with foreheads severed by the 
sword thrust, with Jiair dabbled in blood, with sunken jaws fallen on the gory 
chest ; there was all the iiorror, all the bloodshed, all tlie butchery of war, without 
a single gleam of its romance or chivalry. 

"Here a plaid-kilted Highlander, a dark-coated Hanoverian, were huddled 
together in the ghastliness of sudden death ; each with that fearful red wound 
denting the forehead, each with that same repulsive expression of convulsive pain, 
while their unclosed eyes, cold, dead, and lustreless, glared on the blue heavens 
with the glassy look of death. 

"Yonder, at the foot of a giant elm, an old Continental, sunk down in the grasp 
of death. His head is sunken on his breast, his white hair all blood-bedabbled, hia 
blue hunting shirt spotted with clotted drops of purple. The sunburnt hand ex- 
tended, grasps the unfailing rifle — the old warrior is merry even m death, for his 
lip wears a cold and unmoving smile. 

"A little farther on a peasant boy bites the sod, with his sunburnt face half 
buried in the blood-soddened earth, his rustic attire of linsey tinted by the last 
beams of the declining sun; one arm convulsively gathered under his head, the 
long brown hair all stiffened with blood, while the other grasps the well-used fow- 
ling piece, with which he rushed to the field, fought bravely, and died like a hero. 
The fowling piece is with him in death ; the fowling piece — compani-on of many 
a boyish ramble beside the Wissahikon, many a hunting excursion on the wild 
and dreamy hills that frown around that rivulot^is now beside him, but the hand 
that encloses its stock Ls colder than the iron of its rusted tube." 

In this there is no work left fur the imagination of the finest artist. Let him 

use his mechanical skill in light and shadow ; the picture is made for him. 
So also in the legend of General Agnew. 
"The last I)eams of the sun trembled over the high forehead of General Agnew, 

as, with his back turned to the grave-yard wall, he gazed upon the prospect, and 

his eye lit up with a sudden brilliancy, when the quick and piercing report of a 

rifle broke on the air, and echoed around the scene. 
"A small cloud of light blue smoke wound upward from the grave-yard wall, a 

ghastly smile overspread the face of Agnew, he looked wildly round for a single 

instant, and then fell hea\'ily to the dust of the road-side, a — lifeless corse. 



xviii INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

"His {jallant steed of ebon darkness of skin, lowered his proud crest, and tlirust 
his nostrils in liis muster's liice, his larfje eyes dilating', as he snuffed llie scent of 
blood upon tlie air ; and at the very moment tliat same wild and ghastly fiice ap- 
peared once more above the stones of tlic grave-yard wall, and a shriek of triumph, 
wilder and ghastlier Uion the face, orose shrieking above tlie graves. 

"That rifle shot, pealing from tlie grave-yard wall, was the last shot of tlie 
batlle-<ltty of tioriuantown ; aiui tliat corso Hung along the roadside, witli those 
cold eyes glormg on the blue sunset sky, with tlie dcatli- wound near tlie heart, 
MTis the LAST DKAD MAN of that uav of horror. 

"As tlie sun went down, the dark horse lowered his head, and witli quivering 
nostrils, inhaled tlie last breath of his dying master." 

The gnive-yanl — the cloud of light blue smoke winding up over the grave-yard 
— the muscular form of General Agnew stretched in the dust by the road-side — 
the gallant war-horse, with his dilating eyes and swollen nostrils snuflfing in the 
face of his fiillen rider — the ghastly numlcrer's face looking over tlie old gravc- 
yanl wall — and away oft' in tlio west tlie soft sun set : would not tliis make a 
niagniticent picture, to be called "the last shot of the battle-day or 
Germantow.n !" — There is hardly a page in tliis whole book from which some 
such picture might not Iw made. 

But the (Kictry of tliese Legends perhaps is tlie first thing that will arrest the 
attention of tlie competent reviewer. This indeed is tlie first thing in all 
Lipiwrd's works. Wiiatcver we may say of his ability for the nia<:t accomplislied 
of historians, of his genius as a novelist, I take him to be as much [loet as any 
thing else allor all. Though we may find him utterly without capacity in 
rhythm or rhyme ; still he is a poet. Whoo\er that old man Ossian was, he was 
such another rhymeless rhythmloss jioet, for all that I can see. 

Mr. Lippanl's genius beholds tlie Hudson River as " a mirror in its motinloin 
framr." Or a "Queen who re[Hises in a strange majesty, a croirn o/snoir upon 
her forehead of ffranilr, the leaf of Indian corn, the spear of wheat, mingled in tlie 
girdle which binds her waist, tlie murmur of rippling water ascending from the 
valley beneath her feet" 

The Susquehanna is " a warrior, who rushes from his home in the forest, hews 
his way Uirough primeval mountains, and howls in his wrath as he hurries to the 
ocean. Ever and anon, like a conqueror ovcrladened with the spoils of battle, 
he fcatters a screen island in his path." 

The Wissahikon is " a Prophetess, who with her cheek embrowned by the sun, 
and her dark hair — not gutliered it) clusters or curling in ringlets — billing 
straightly to her white slioulders, c\inios fiirth from her cavern in the woods, 
and speaks to us in a low soft tone, that awes and wins our hearts, ami looks 
at us with eyes whose steady light and supernatural brightness bewilder our 
eoul." 



.INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. xix 

To our author's fancy also " The night comes slowh/ (Jown." And he conld 
see the stron<f man bearing oft' " Ike Utile girl, whose goliteii hair fioated over 
his dark dress like sunshine over a pall." To his cars the " wind sweeps 
through the woods, not with a Iwisteroiis roar, but with the strange sad cadence 
of an organ, whose notes swell away through the arches of a dim cathedral 
aisle." 

To his vision also there arc sunny days in winter when " the glad maiden. 
May, seems to blow her warm breath in the grim face of February, ttntil the 
rough old warrior laughs again." 

He sees the smoke of the battle-field as " The shroud of death for millions." 

To him the Wissahikon is a tiling of beauty forever — "It is a poem of beauty, 
where tlic breeze mourns its anthem throuj,fh tlie tall pines ; where the silver 
waters send up tlieir voices of joy ; where calmness, and ([uiet, and intense solitude 
awe the soul, and fill the heart with bright thoughts and golden dreams, woven in 
the lu.rury of the summer hour." 

I take these to be good specimens enough of poetry. Nearly every page in the 
whole book is alive with this (inaint or beautifid imagery. Such a book has never 
appeared in this country belbre — to give us so jwetical and striking a view of the 
age of tlie Revolution. 

Somehow I think history ought to be written with somewhat of the jmot's in- 
spiration. It is only tlie poet who can call back to us the remote and dead, and 
invest them with a visible and lilc-like form. He alone can 

" Cull up the man who left lisilf told 
Tlie story ol' Cuiubuscau bold." 

The effigies of I.ippard's heroes have almost as much life as tlie scene of their 
utmost actions. Nothing is dead any more that liis imagination once grasjxs. lie 
continually reminds us of that French poet Iiistorian, Michelet, who, take him all 
in all, is perhaps the sweetest and best Iiistorian the world allows us just now. 

Oiir author may, if he will, make himself the Michelet of America — the poet- 
historian of his country. 

In this volume he has given us an earnest of his sincerity, independence. The 
light which he has shed on the subject of Arnold's treason shows patience enougli 
in tlie perlbrmance of the most difficult task. His defence of llie piilitical tame of 
unhappy Thomas Paine evinces courage enough too. For this lie has been called 
an infidel; but only by fire-skull's who, justly enough, hate Paine's sceiilicism, 
but most unjustly traduce his well earned political fame. I.ippard's appreciation 
of tlie political writings of Paine is precisely that entertained by Washington, 
Adams, and all our groat countryman of the past. The iiuli.^pensiblo service 
which this man performed for America, in the time of its trial, has never been dis- 
puted by any man capable of forming an intelligent opinion on so great a subject. 



XX INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

Mr. Lippard is not an mfidol : unless infidel be a man wlio will not profanely wor- 
ship his Crealur, as tailoi-a cut jacket?, by the square rule. He is not an infidel; 
unless it mean a. man who will not IMlow the sniokey llickcring torch lights, in 
the hands of groping crecd-mongors, nor bow down his soul to the graven images 
of soulless sectarianism, which clings only to the dead body of the Saviour, having 
dismissed his spirit from the tomple. If a profound belief in Theism, in prophets 
and apostles — a warm and sincere reverence for tliat most beautiful and loving 
spirit that ever stmctitied the form of humanity, Jesus of Nazareth, make a 
cliristian, Mr. LijiparJ is far enough from iiitidolity. Read the Iwok, in his 
work called Fourth of July 177tj, and then say whether this man is infidel to 
Jesus. There is a better, a juster appreciation of the spirit and purity of Nazareth, 
in this brief chapter, than in half a ton of sermons ground out of the cast-iron 
brains of ijitolerant sectaries. 

Mr. Lippard's religious views are precisely thase of nearly every man of genius 
in this country ; and we may say every other country. This world over, and the 
ages over, genius has had its own religion. It was never infidel either. In the 
highest order of genius at least we shall never find raw and scoffing infidelity. 
To every soul capable of catching so vast a sight, tlie lile of Jesus is a poem of 
beauty ; a brother-voice, wliispcring there, when man's heart is weakest. Jesus: 
name divine ! the soul's amulet of love— "prest evermore to the lips of ages." If 
men of genius have ever been heedless of that word, it could have been only in 
some mad moment when revenging themselves upon the vulgarity and material- 
ism of its professed followers. They may not be able to behold the spirit of Jesus 
floating in the ri\crs of blood which have flowed in his name : they may not be 
able to hear his voice in the murder-.-hrieks and blasphemies that swell upward 
from the wild war of sects. But in those tones of peace, once heard in Judeali, 
" Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest," 
they will recognise evermore the nmsic-breath of God. They may not take to 
their bosoms tlie pedant Christ of artificial theology — Christ in effigy alas ! but 
Jesus of Nazareth they will press to their heart of hearts as the divinest friend of 
man, and the truest son of Cod. To them religion, as made easy by catechism 
and rule, and bound in calf, may seem of little value to the soul ; but tliat religion 
which streams in glory from the stars — reflected upward again in the smile of 
each flower, and hiding itself at last in tlie still heart of man — made living and 
eternal there by the voice of revelation — that religion is always with them. The 
Prophets and the Apostles are their companions too. 

Genius by intuition falls into truth, sooner than the greatest elaboration 
of mere talent can reason its way into it. It catches trutli by inspiration : 
the one great fact of nature and providence flashes in on it perpetually, like a 
sunrise of the soul. 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. xxi 

'* The awful shadow of some unseen Power 

Floats, though unseen, among us ; visiting 

This various world with as inconstant wing 
As summer winds that creep from floWer to tlower; 
Lilie moon-beams that behind some piney mountain shower, 

It visits witli inconstant glance 

Each human heart and countenance ; 
Like hues and liarmonies of evening, 

Like clouds in starlight widely spread, 

Like memory of music fled 

Like aught that for its grave may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.^' 

Evory tiling great and true is a revelation of Deity. The songs of Isaiah, the 
sermons of Jesus, the oaks, the lillies, the seasons — does not the God speak in 
them all ] In them all, if we have but the purity and spirituality to hear it. To 
the mind of Jesus there was a witness of the Father in the "lillies of the field," 
the " birds of the air," the " rain," the " sun-beams :" but not any witness to the 
coarse mind of the Jcwisli doctor of divinity. He could find deity only in parch- 
ments, creeds, tradition, ritualism. The/ac< of creation, providence, and revela- 
tion, is plain enough to all men ; but the character in which we behold that fact 
depends entirely on the light or darkness within us. A coarse rude man must 
have coarse rude conceptions of his Deity, and of all works of Deity. The gods 
of Creotons and Ilottontots are fashioned out of the loathsome indolence of their 
own souls. If we will look into it, we shall find tliat the diflerence between the 
God and Father of Jesus, and the gods of tiie Philistines, was precisely the difler- 
ence between the moral and intellectual character of Jesus and the Philistiiie. 

The coarse mass of mankuid, at this day, can see in the ocean only a foul mass 
of brackish water, full of codlings and devil-fish : but to the poet, whom the world 
has foolishly enough agreed to call infidel, it was 

" A glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests." 

Tlius much have we said in tlie way of rebuke to the religious vulgarity, that 
babbles evermore about tlie infidelity of Genius. Genius is deeply and beautifully 
religious. But its religion is alone there, with Jesus and all Prophets, in the 
highest regions of tlie soul, in the great watch-tower of the Eternal — alone, where 
the floods of God's eternity flow round and encompass it forever. 

How poor and mean a thing a fighting human creed must look to the God- 
gift;ed soul ! Is tliis our christian justice, to brand all genius as infidel, because it 
will not stoop to the region of quarrelsome sects ! Is there no better defence of 
religion, nay, is there no better recognition of religion than this sect-madness — 
this insane idolatrous worship of consecrated ink and paper ! I hope there is. I 
should indeed be poor in faith if there were not. 



Mil INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

Through all of Lippard's writings there is a vein of deep religiousness — a con- 
stant recognition oi" God and justice — the devotion of a heart belonging to no 
creed ; but of a heart devoted to whatsoever things are pure in all men. 

Read his " Cirave-yard of Gorinantown," in this book, and say of it, is not so. If 
we will, we may take it as a specimen of style also — of good old fashioned honest 
Saxon-Englisli ; free enough from tiie decrepitude of the mongrel English-Latin, 
we have so miserably imitated from the school of Jonson, Drydeu, Addison, and a 
long list of Latin-English writers. 

"In Gerninntown there is an old-time graveyard. No gravelled walks, no deli- 
cate sculpturings of marble, no hot-beds planted over corruption are there. It is 
an old-time graveyard, defended from the highway and encirclings fields by a 
thick stone wall. On the nortli and west it is shadowed by a range of trees, the 
sombre verdure of the pine, tlie leafy magniticence of the maple and horse-chesnut, 
mingling in one rich mass of foliage. Wild flowers are in that graveyard, and 
tangled vines. It is white with tomb-stones. They spring up, like a host of 
spirits from the green graves ; they seem to struggle with each other for space, 
for room. The lettering on these tombstones, is in itself, a rude history. Some 
aro marked with rude words in Dutcli, some in German, one or more in Latin, one 
in Indian ; others in English. Some bend down, as if hiding their rugged faces 
from the liglit, some start to one side ; here and tlierc, rank grass chokes them 
from tlie light and air. 

" You may tiilk to me of your fash ionahle graveyards, where Death is made to 
look pretty and silly and fanciful, but for me, this one old gra\eyard, with its rank 
grass and crowded tombstones, has more of (iod and Immortality in it, than all 
your elegant ccmctrics together. I love its soil : its stray « ilil flowers are omena 
to me, of a pleasant sleep, tiiken by weary ones, who were faint with living too 
long. 

" It is to me, a holy thought, that here my bones will one day repose. For here, 
in a lengthening line, extend the tombstones, s;icred to the memory of my fathers, 
far back in to time. They sleep here. The summer day may dawn, the winter 
storm may howl, and still they sleep on. No careless eye looks over these walls. 
There is no gaudiness of sculpture to invite the lounger. As for a pic nic party, 
in an old graveyard like this, it would be blasphemy. None come save those who 
have friends here. Sisters come to talk quietly witli the ghost of sisters ; children 
to invoke the spirit of that Mother gone hotne .' I, too sometimes, panting to get 
free from tlie city, come here to talk with my sisters — tor two of mine are here — 
■with my fetlier — for that clover blooms above his grave. 

" It seems to me, too, when bending over that grave, that the Mother's form, 
awakened from her distant gnive, beneath tlie sotl of Delaware, is also here ! — 
Here, to commune with the dead, whom she loved while living ; here, with the 
spirits of my fiithers ! 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. xxiii 

"I cannot get rid of the thoiiglit that good spirits love that graveyard. For all 
at once, when you enter its walls, you feel yadder, better ; more satisfied with 
life, yet less reluctant to die. It is such a pleasant spot, to take a long rei>ose. I 
have seen it in winter, when tliere was snow upon tlie graves, and the sleigh- 
bells tinkled ui the street. Then calmly and tenderly upon the white tombstones, 
played and lingered the cold moon. 

"In summer, too, when the leaves were on the trees, and the grass upon the sod, 
when the chirp of tlie cricket and katy-did broke shrilly over the graves through 
the silence of night. In early spring, when there was scarce a blade of grass to 
struggle against the north wind, and late in fall when November baptizes you 
with her cloud of gloom, I have been there. 

"And in winter and sunmier, in tall and spring, in calm or storm, in sickness or 
healtli, in every change of this great play, called life, does my heart go out to 
that graveyard, as though part of it was already there. 

"Nor do I love it the less, because on every blade of grass, in every flower, that 
wildly blooms there, you find written : — " This soil is sacred from creeds. Here 
rests the Indian and the white man ; here sleep in one sod, the Catholic, Presby- 
terian, Quaker, Methodist, Lutheran, Mennonist, Deist, Infidel. Here, creeds 
forgotten, all are men and woman again, and not one but is a simple child of 
God. 

" This graveyard was established by men of all creeds, more than a century ago. 
May that day bo darkness, when creeds shall enter this rude gate. BeUer had 
that man never been born, who shall dare pollute this soil with the earthly clamor 
of sect. But on the man, who shall repair this wall, or keep this graveyard 
sacred from the hoofs of improvement, who shall do his best to keep our old grave- 
yard what it is, on that man, be tlie blessuigs of God; may his daughters be virtu- 
ous and beautiful, his sons gifted and brave. In his last hour, may tlic voices of 
angels sing hymns to his passing soul. If tliere was but one flower in the world, 
I would plant it on that man's grave." 

I know not how we shall keep back our hearts from the utmost love of the man 
who could write tliis " Old time Graveyard." It is what we all feel ; but cannot 
utter it thus. It breatlies such a loving, longing spirit — it seems as though some 
holy tear had found an utterance, and spoken to our licarts, as they speak to them- 
selves in moments of purest sadness. 

It is a great fort of Lippard's, this speaking to our hearts. With the deepest 
insight into the imnost workings of the human soul, he has also a passionate sense 
of the beautiful ; joined with tlie loftiest enthusiasm, the strongest imagination, 
and tlie keenest relish for whatsoever things are true. A necessity is upon him, 
to be a writer of the finest house-hold sentiments. ^ 

Another necessity is njxin him too. His thoughts again take fire-wings, and 
rush ofi' into gloom and space — now dipping their pinions in the blood of battles. 



xxiv INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

now wheeling through cliaos and black night, now shouting a cry of horror to the 
skies — now iiioltinij iiito tears again on some high rock tliat overlooks tlic mighty 
field of tlio world. 

In all tliis there is no affectation. He is still true to his nature, wliicli is cr.pa- 
ble of entering into all these extremes of sentiment and passion. He does not force 
his thoughts: his thoughts force hiin.— So there is \iu\c fillagne work in his 
writings — small use enough of ginger-hread and sugar-candy words. 

His severity is dreadful : it wouid split " tlic gnarled oak." If he thunders it 
is no blast of a tin trumpet; but Jove's most dreadlul anger. He does not make 
earth-quakes and tempests by " breaking flower-pots," and tireing torpedoes : it is 
not his way. His sneer is a terrible caustic — frighiful as the wrinkluig of Jupi- 
ter's brow : and, again, it flows off in a vein of o.\truvagant heedless levity, after 
the fashion, tlie Frenchman Rabelais. . 

Take it all iu all, this book is, perhaps, the best work Lippard has written. 
Though I doubt if we may say as much when his " Nazarene" is finished. From 
what has already appeared of the " Nazarene," and from what I know of the au- 
thor's plan in the completion of it, I shall look to that as his greatest work. 
Already it is freer of the faults of careless impetuous Genius than his i)re\ious 
books. I saklfauUs: it were as well said merits. That wild, heedless, reckless 
dashing oji, seen so often in the works of the freshest highest order of genius, 
would indeed be a mtrit to the tame dull perfection of less gifted minds. Tliese 
faviti, as we call them, to their " sm(Xjth round periods," would be like souls to 
a pile of dead bodies. It is not worth our while, though, to spend much time in 
talking oF faults in the style of a man of Lippard's genius. What has he to do 
with style, whose great heai't is already a furnace of fire-tlioughts, seethmg and 
simmering with cinotions for which he can find no utterance. Style indeed : that 
is a thing tlir pedants, word-mongers, sentence-makers to talk about In this re- 
spect however our author is fast getting above all honest criticism. Five years 
hence, life and health prospering him, it will not be a very safe thing for any 
scribbler to meddle with h't»/<iulls of style. 

We are glad enough to say that his health seems firm at present : though he is 
bv no means a stoul-mun. In height, he is about the medium size, of a slight 
Fwarth complexion, witli a frame as symmetrically delicate as a woman's ; a large 
flashing dark grey eye, a massive beautifully formed forehead, slightly enlarging 
from the base upwards, a personal appearance somewhat independent of the pre- 
judicies of mankind, denoting in every step and look the utmost energy and 
jxjwer. In a crowd of a thousand men you would be likely to pick him out ao a 
man you would be glad to know something about. His conversation is brilliant, 
and merry, even to playfulness. You would hardly take his soul to be tlie terrible 
whip it is, when he scents a foe. He is an entliusiastic friend : and an entliusi- 
astic enemy, alas ! Though we are glad to say he is getting tlie better of this last 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XXV 

enthusiasm. He is a man of warm generous heart, incapable of any envy, and 
will be sure never to open an attack until he has good reason, real or imagined. 
But, the attack once opened upon him, and we can no longer vouch for liis modera- 
tion, lie is a terrible Titan then; who from his mount Otiiyrs would make 
war upon the gods, if they were his enemies too : war ! until the earth groans, 
the heavens sigh, the woods blaze with the lightnings, as we have read before in 
classic story. Such is his courage. In a moral way, he has never yet stopt to 
commit to memory the meaning oi fear. Nor will he stop for it, now that his 
iame, as a Novelist, is already secure. His works of romance bring a higher 
price in the market of this day, than the works of any other American novelist. 
They have met with a rapider and larger sale, than was even known in his his- 
tory of novel-publishing, in this country, before his day. He has already a hun- 
dred imitators, among tlie aspiring geniuses of the land — very "clever," commend- 
able, ambitious graspers after fame or money, who vainly strive after his wild, 
headlong idiomatic style. Some of them seem to think, if they but break the back 
of an old fashioned, long Jonsonian sentence, into a dozen pieces, they have it. 
Others run away with- his titles. I cannot tell how many writers of " legends" 
have sprung up like mushrooms, the growth of a single night, since Lippard began 
his " Legends of the Revolution." Indeed it is difhcult to say when our litera- 
ture will recover from this attack of legends. 

We live in jeopardy every hour, expecting "legends of Noah's Ark," "legends 
of the golden fringed baby-jumper," " legends of Dame Walder's tea-pot," 
"legends of John Rogers' nine children;" with critical notes on the small "one at 
the breast." 

Did we not hold our Author to be the innocent cause of this terrible affliction, 
we would vote to have him cribbed m iron bars, or hanged, as a rebellious Cyclops 
against the peace of our literature. 

Why need men prostitute their gifts to mere imitation and tlicft ! Out with 

your own thoughts, in your own words : to that must you come at last, if you 

would make either fame or bread by thoiights and words. Be a native voice in 

your own moimtains ; and not some faint echo from atar. Get your own titles 

too. But, have not you as good a right as any body, to tliat title of " Legends ?" 

Then so had Mark, Suple or Jack Sprat a good right to the title of " Paradise 

Lost." As well may you steal a man's ideas, as his title. When an author has 

found out a good title, and identified his name with it, what right have a hundred 

scribblers to seize upon it, and make it the common property of everj' adventurer 

after fame ? Not possibly can there be a meaner piece of plagiarism. Pilfer 

whole pages from an author's book, and you will not be doing him the injury you 

would to steal his successfiil title. Give the title stealer then, the same doom we 

do the word-stealer, the idea-stealer. Let the whole band of literary thiefs receive 

the one brand of shame. Man was not sent into this world to steal, but to work. 

4 



xxvi INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

The liighest price of work is not gold, or bread eillier ; but knowledge. If it 
wore gold or bread, then might you steal it ; for that way the world wags at pre- 
sent; but not any stealing can bring knowledge. Think out a few thoughts for 
yourselves — tliat will be knowledge. And do you find it so difficult to thmk? 
Look upward to that jeweled curtain of the heavens — to those stars, the eyes of 
eternity, that look at you with such a strange loving light — the moon that swims 
away in the blue infinite, that smiles evermore in the dark face of night — tlie 
clouds, the dim moon-light drapery of the sky — the thousands of years that have 
hastened away into the dark, like tempests — tlie nations which have gone whirl- 
ing down into night, like bubbles — the great flood of Eternity, that hastens yt)U, 
and all flesh into the same unfathomable sea — is Ihere nothing to tliink about in 
all tliis ] TItink then ! and leave ofi' thy tbilowing in the wake of otlier men's 
thinking. 

I^ippard's perfect rest in himself, his determinate, immovable self-reliance, has 
been a great cause of his success. It was notliing what the critics, and all men 
said of him. What could he, and what ought he to say for himself! seemed a 
question of infinitely more importance. This man is not a pipe for Fortune's fin- 
ger (or any body else's finger) to play what stop she pleases on. If it come to 
that matter of playing, he will be likely to play his own tunes, and to his own 
time ; beat all the drums and blow all the fifes against him ncvcrtlicless. There 
is something so great in selt-reliance. 

For all tJiat I can find out, no other kind of reliance ever availed a man much 
in tJiis world. This suflering ourselves to be led about in swaths and strings, to 
be divided into schools, and parties— cut up into companies, to shoulder arms and 
march at the command of some noisy Captain, whose superiority we should 
never guess, but by his cocked-hat and feather — this may do well enough for fight- 
ing men in Me.xico ; but it is not tlie way any intellectual greatness was ever 
achieved. From a " ragged Manchester boy " George Thompson becomes the 
mouth-piece of West India freedom ; and then twenty millions of hungry white- 
livered Sa.\ons "shriek and groan through his brain," until the demon of English 
corn-laws trembles at the thunder of his truth. This is the history of no imitator ; 
but of a self-relying dauntless hero, who abides evermore by his own tlioughts, 
and by his own utterance. 

From a cheated, sickly, unhappy boy, whose Father and mother were dead — 
who wandered weeping, with a single crust of bread in his pocket, up and down 
the glen of tlie Wissahikon, and day after day wondered when he should die, 
George Lippard becomes the author of Books that go oft" to the tune of twelve 
editions a year. That is something. 

Another cause of our Aullior's speedy triumph over nearly every obstacle that 
lay in his way, is his sincerity — his great passionate trutli to himself His re- 
bukes of tlie wrong are all honest — felt in his heart : his praise of good men and 



(NTRODUCTORT ESSAY. ^ XXTii 

brave men is honest too. If he lays bare tlic black heart of the coward, or any 
traitor, it is bocause his whole natural soul is in arms against these things. If he 
writes books,' it is not for the sake of writing — not altogether for bread — ^not 
wholly for fame even — but because he 7?it/s( write. His nature forces him. Wild 
and chaotic as the Quaker City may appear to the shallow mind, still the deeper, 
purer judgment, sees in it all, the earnest skilful work of the dissecting knife — 
the faithful laying bare of black hearts, and oppressive institutions. This was his 
aim. His whole heart was honest and most true in the work. That is why he 
succeeded. He thought of these vvTongs, his wrongs, until they goaded him into 
madness; until whithersoever he went, in the blaze of noon, in the silence of 
dusk, night, bitter mockery and chattering fiends laughed at him through every ^ 
chink and crevice in the wall. With scorn, and wrath, and execrations, he flung 
defiance in their face, and shouted a battle-cry over the dumb anguish of the 
millions, perishing in conventional lies ; until it rolls away, like tliunder through 
a hundred presses, and dies at last into whispers on a thousand tongues. None 
but the sincere man can do that. Insincerity crucifies the heart: then every 
thing born of it, is a forced birth. Its only sign of life, is tlie gasp of death. That 
is the reason why so many books (well-written enough) fall dead from the press. 
They were written without any high aim, without any great sincerity; and they 
must die. Sincerity is such a great tiling — such an inspirer of genius — such a 
sanctifier of its actions — beckons it so serenely on tliepath of fame, I wish all men 
had it. It enables one to look out so calmly upon the storm: as if eyes of love 
looked at us through the black cloud — as if some lips of heaven kissed off the 
tears from our cheeks — and the hand of God lay quiet on our breast, to soothe the 
chafed and injured heart : tJiere is something so sweet in sincerity ! I wish all 
men had it I wish all men to succeed ; and tliere can be no success without 
sincerity. Take tliat thought home with thee, reader. And when next wo meet 
again, may it bo to speak well of thee and thy works: to give thee a good hand of 
welcome, and sit down and talk about thee, as about a brother. I shall be 
glo^l to do it 



THE BATTLE OF GEHMANTOWN. 



" And when servile Fraud stalks llirough the land, and Genius starves in his cell, 
while upstart Imbecility rides abroad in chariots; when man is degenerate, public 
faith is broken, public honor violated, then will we wander forth into the awful shadows 
of the Past, and from the skeletons of the battle-field evoke the spirits of that giant 
time, calling upon their forms of unreal majesty for the mighty secret which made 
tliem the niau-godsof that eraof high deeds and glorious purposes, the Ghostly Past." 



THE BATTLE EVE. 

1.— THE RED CROSS IN PHILADELPHIA. 

Toll — toll — toll ! The State House bell, tliat once rung the birlh-day of 
Freedom, now tolled ils knell. 

It was a sad day for Philadelphia, a sad day for the nation, when the 
pomp of British banners and the gleam of British arms were in her streets 
and along her avenues; when, as far as eye could reach, was seen the long 
array of glaring red coats, with the sunbeims of a clear September day fall- 
ing on helm and cuirass, shining like burnished gold. 

It was a sad and gloomy day for the nation, when the Congress was 
forced to flee tlie old provincial town of William Penn, when the tories 
paraded the streets with loud hurrahs, with the Britisli lion waving over- 
head, while the whigs hung their heads in shame and in despair. 

True, the day was calm and bright overhead ; true, tlie sky was clear, 
and the nipping air of autumn gave freshness to the mind and bloom to the 
cheek ; true it was, the city was all alive with the glitter of processions, 
and the passing to and fro of vast crowds of people ; but the processions 
were a dishonor to our soil, the crowds hurried to and fro to gaze upon the 
living monu.menls of the defeat of Brandywine — the armed aud arrogant 
British legions thronging the streets of Philadelpliia. 

They came marching along in front of the old State House, on their way 
to their barracks in the Northern Liberties. The scene was full of strange 
and startling interest. Tlie roofs of the Slate House arose clearly in the 
autumn air, each peak and cornice, each gable-end and corner, shown in full 
and distinct outline, with the trees of Independence Square lowering greenly 
in the rear of the fabric, while up into the clear sky arose the State House 

(25) 



26 THE BATTI.i; OF GERMANTOVVN. 

steeple, with its solemn bell of iiidepcmlcnce, that but a year ago sent forth 
the news of liberly to all the land, swiiiijing a welcome to the Brilish host — 
a weleonie that sounded like the funeral knell of new world freedom. Tlie 
columns of tiie army were passing in front of Independenee Hall. Along 
Chesnut street, as far as the eye could see, shone liie glittering array of 
sword and bayonet, witii the bright sunshine fallinj; over the stout forms of 
the Hritisii troopers, mounted on gallant war steeds, and blazing with bur- 
nished cuirass and polished helm, while banner and pennon waived gaily 
overhead. There, Ireadins tlic streets in all the flush of victory, were the 
regiments of British infantry, with liie one bold front of their crimson attire 
flashing in the liglit, with their bayonets rising overhead like a forest of steel, 
and with marks of lirandywine written on many a whiskered face and 
burly chest. 

And at their head, mounted on a gallant steed, with the lordlings of his 
stair around him, rode a tall and athletic man, with a sinewy frame, and a 
calm, placid face, wearing an even smile and quiet look, seen from beneath 
the shadow of his plumed chapeau, while his gaudy attire of crimson, with 
epaulettes of gold on cither shoulder, aimounced Lord Coruwallis, the second 
general of the invading army. 

And as the General glanced around, fixing liis eye proudly upon the 
British banner, waving from the State House steeple, as b.is glance was met 
by the windows of Independence Hall, decorated by the tlags of the British 
King, a proud gleam lit up his calm bhic eye; and with the thought of 
Brandywiue, came a vision of the future, speaking eloquently of provinces 
subjugated, rebels overthrown and liberties crushed. 

And then peals of music, uttered by an hundred bands, fdled the street, 
and startled the silence of the State House avenues, swelling up to the 
lieavens with notes of joy, the roll of drum, the shriek of bugle, and the 
clash of cymbal mingling in grand chorus. The banners waved more 
proudly overhead, the spears, the bayonets, and helmets shonf brighter in 
the light, and between the peals of music the loud huzzas of the crowd 
blackening the sidewalks, looking from the windows, and clinging to the 
trees, broke gladly upon the air. 

Toll — toll — toll — the solemn notes of independence bell heralded, with an 
iron tongue, the entrance of the invaders into the city ; the possession of 
Philadelphia by the British. 

It was a grand sight to see — the windows crowded with the forms of 
beauty, waving scarfs in the air, aged nnatrons lifting little children on high, 
who clapped their hands with glee, as ihey beheld the glimmer of arms and 
the glitter of steel, the streets below all crimson with British uuilbrm, all 
music and all joy, the side walks blackened by crowds of servile lories who 
shouted till their loyal throats were tired " liOug life to King George — con- 
fusion to AVasliington, and death to the rebels !" 

They trooped througli the streets of Philadelphia on the 26lh of Septem- 



THE HAUNT OF THE REBEL. 27 

ber, 1777; just fifteen days after the battle-day of Brandywine, they took 
possession with all the pomp of victory ; and as the shades of twiliglit sank 
down over the town, they marched proudly into their barracks, in the 
Northern Liberties. 

II.— THE HAUNT OF THE REBEL. 

And where was Washington ? 

Retreating from the forces of Sir William Howe, along the Schuylkill ; 
retreating with brave men under his command, men who had dared death in 
a lliousand siiapes, and crimsoned their hands with the carnage of Brandy- 
wine ; retreating because his powder and ammunition were exhausted ; be- 
cause his soldiers wanted the necessary apparel, while their hands grasped 
muskets without lock or Hint. 

The man of the American array retreated, but his soul was firm. The 
American Congress had deserted Philadelphia, but AVashington did not 
despair. The British occupied the surrounding country, their arms shone 
on every hill ; their banners toyed in every breeze ; yet had George Wash- 
ington resolved to strike another blow for the freedom of this fair land. 

The calm sunlight of an autumnal afternoon was falling over the quiet 
valleys, the green plains, and the rich and rolling woodland of an undulating 
tract of country, spreading from the broad bosom of the Delaware to the 
hilly shores of the Schuylkill, about seven miles from Philadelphia. 

The roofs of an ancient village, extending in one unbroken line along the 
great northern road, arose grey and massive in the sunlight, as each corniced 
gable and substantial chimney looked forth from the shelter of the surround- 
ing trees. There was an air of quaint and rustic beauty about this village. 
Its plan was plain and simple, burdened with no intricate crossings of streets, 
no labyrinthine pathways, no complicated arrangement of houses. The 
fabrics of the village were all situated on the line of the great northern road, 
reaching from the fifth mile stone to the eightli, while a line of smaller vil- 
lages extended this " Indian file of houses" to the tenth milestone from 
the city. 

The houses were all stamped with marks of the German origin of their 
tenants. The high, sloping roof, the walls of dark grey stone, the porch 
before the door, and the garden in the rear, blooming with all the freshness 
of careful culture, marked the tenements of the village, while the heavy 
gable-ends and the massive cornices of every roof, gave every house an ap- 
pearance of rustic antiquity. , 

Around the village, on either side, spread fertile farms, each cultivated 
like a garden, varied by orchards heavy with golden fruit, fields burdened 
with the massive shocks of corn, or whitened with the ripe buckwheat, or 
embrowned by tlie upturning plough. 

The village looked calm and peaceful in the sunlight, but its plain and 



as THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

simple people went -not forth to the tield to work on that calm autumnal 
afternoon. The oxen stood idly in the barn-yard, cropping the fragrant hay, 
the teams stood unused by the farmer, and the ilail was silent within the 
barn. A sudden spoil seemed to have come strangely down upon the 
peaceful denizens of Gernianlown, and that spell was the shadow of the 
British banner iUuig over her lields of while buckwheat, surmounting the 
dream-like steeps of the Wissakikon, waving from Mount Airy, and tloaling 
in the IVcsliiiiiig breeze of Chesnut Hill. 

Had you ascended Chesnut Hill on that calm autumnal afternoon, and 
gazed over the tract of country opened to your view, your eye would have 
beheld a strange and stirring sight. 

Above your head the clear and boundless sky, its calm azure giving no 
tokens of the strife of the morrow ; declining in the west, the gorgeous sun 
pouring his golden light over the land, his beams of welcome having no 
omen of the baiile-sraoke and mist that shall cloud their light on the morrow 
morn. 

Gaze on the valley below. Gernianlown, with its dark grey tenements, 
sweeps away to the south, in one unbroken line ; farther on you behold the 
glitter of steeples, and the rod's of a large city — tiiey are the steeples and 
roofs of Philadelphia. Yon belt of blue is the broad Delaware, and yon 
dim, dark object beyond the ciiy, blackening the bosom of the waters, is 
Fort Milllin, recently creeled by General Washington. 

Gaze over ihe fields of Gertnaniown near the centre of llie village. In 
every field there is the gleam of arms, on every hill-top there waves a royal 
banner, and over hill and plain, toward liie Schuylkill on the one side, and 
the Delaware on the other, sweep the white tents of the British army. 

Now turn your gaze to the norih, and to the northwest. The valley 
opens before you, and fairer valley never smiled beneath the^sun. 

Away it sweeps to the northwest, an image of rustic beauty, here a rich 
copse of green woodland, just tinged by autumn, there a brown field, yonder 
the Wissahikon, marking its way of light, by a winding line of silver, in 
one green spot a village peeping out from among the trees ; a litde farther 
on, a fanner's dwelling with llie massive barn and the dark grey hay-stack; 
on every side life, and verdure, and cultivation, mingled and crowded to- 
gether, as though liie hand of God, had flung his richest blessings over llie 
valley, and clothed the land in verdure and in beauty. 

Yonder the valley sweeps away to ihe norihwest ; the sun shines over a 
dense mass of woodland rolling away to the blue of the horizon. Mark 
that woodland well, try and discern the oudine of every tree, and count the 
miles as you gaze upon the prospect. 

The distance from Chesnut Hill, is sixteen weary miles, and under that 
mass of woodland, beneath the shadows of those rolling forests, beside the 
streams hidden from your eye, in distress and iu want, in defeat and in 
danger, reudevouz the bands of a desperate, lliough gallant army. 



THE CAMP OF THE BRITISHER. 29 

It is the Continental army, and they encamp on the banks of the Slup- 
pack. 

Their encampment is sad and still, no peals of music break upon the 
woodland air, no loud hurrahs, no shouts of arrogant victory. The morrow 
has a dillerent tale to tell, for by the first ihish of the coming morn, a meteor 
will burst over the British Hosts at Germautown, and lighting for life, lor 
liberty, will advance the starved soldiers of the Continental host, 

III— THE CAMP OF THE BRITISHER. 

As the sun went down on the 3d of October, 1777, his last beams flung 
a veil of ofolden light over the verdure of a gre«n lawn, that extended from 
the road near the head of Germaulowii, bounded along the village street by 
a massive wall of stone, spreading north and south, over a quarter of a mile, 
wliile toward the east, it swept in all its greenness and beauty, for the dis- 
tance of some two hundred yards. 

A magnificent mansion arose towering on the air, a mansion built of grey- 
stone, witii a steep roof, ornamented by iieavy cornices, and varied massive 
chimneys, with urns of brown stone, placed on pedestals of brick at each 
corner of the building. This fabric was at once substantial, strikingly 
adapted for defence in time of war, and neat and well-proportioned as regards 
arciiitectnral beauty. The walls lliick and massive, were well supplied 
with windows, the hull door opened in the centre of tiie house, facing the 
road, and the steps were decorated by two marble Lions placed on either 
side, eacli iiolding an escutcheon in its grasp. 

Here and there a green tree arose from the bosom of the lawn ; in the 
rear of the mansion were seen the brown-stone buildings of the barn, and to 
the north tlie grounds were varied by the rustic enclosures of a catde-pen. 

This was the mansion of Chew's House, and that green lawn, spreading 
brio^ht and golden in the beams of the declining sun, was the Battle-Field 
OF Germantown. 

One word with regard to tlie position of tlie British on tlie Eve of Battle. 
Tlie left winsj of the British army extended from the centre of the village, 
more than a mile below Ciiew's house, from a jjoint near the old market 
house, westward across the Wissahikon, and toward tlie Schuylkill. The 
German ciiasseurs in their heavy unifiirm, liie ponderous caps, defended by.. 
bear-skin and steel, the massive sword, and the cumbrous ornaments of sil- 
ver, were stationed in the front and on the flank of the left wing. 

The riglit wing swept away towards the Delaware, as far as the Old 
York Road ; each soldier well armed and accoutred, each dragoon supplied 
with his stout war-steed, each cannon with its file of men, ready for action, 
and every musket, with brilliant tube and glittering bayonet, prepared with 
its man, for the keen chase of the rebel route, whenever the master of the 
hounds might start the hunt. 



30 THE DATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

This \vii)g was ilolended in the front bj' a battalion of ligiit infiintry, and 
the Queen's American Rangers, whose liandsomc aceoulrements, uniform 
of (lark grepn, varied by ornaments of gold, and rillcs mounted with silver, 
gleamed gaily from amid the de|)llis of the greenwood, prcseiiling a brilliant 
contrast to the course blue hunting shirt, the plain rille, and uncoutli woods- 
man's knife that cluirai-tcrised the AnuTican Rillcman. 

In a green Held, situated near the Oorniantown road, a mile above Chew's 
house, the banner of the 40lh regiment lloated above the tent of Col. Mus- 
grave, its brave commander, while the canvass dwellings of the soldiers were 
scattered around the flag, intermingled with the tents of another battalion 
of light infantry. 

Such was the British position at Cermantown — a picket at Allan's house, 
Mount Airy, two miles above Chew's house — Col. Musgrave's command a 
mile below Allen's house — the main body two miles below Chew's, some- 
where near the old market house — and this force was liacked by four regi- 
ments of British (Ircnadiers, stationed in the barracks in the Northern 
Liberties, Philadelphia. 

And this force, exceeding 18000 able-bodied regulars, the Patriot cliieftian 
had resolved to attack with 8000 Continental troops and 3000 militia, infe- 
rior in arms, in clothing, and in everything but the justice of their cause, to 
the proud soldiers of the British host. 

Night came down upon Cermantown. The long shadows of the old 
houses were Hung across the village road, and along the fields ; the moon 
was lip in the dear heavens, the dark grey roofs were tinted with silver, 
and glimpses of moonlight were flung around the massive barns of the village, 
yet its peaceful denizens had not yet retired to rest, after their good old Ger- 
man fashion, at early candle-light. 

There was a strange fear upon the minds of the villagers. Each porch 
contained ils little circle ; the hoary grandsire, who had sulfered the bright- 
cheeked grandchild to glide from his knee, while he leaned forward, with 
animated gesture, conversing with his son in a low whisper — the blooming 
mother, the blue-eyed maiden, and the ruddy-cheeked, lla.\en-haired boy, all 
sharing the interest of the scene,and havin^j but one topic of discourse — the 
terror of war. 

Could we go back to that quiet aulunmal night on the 3d of October, in 
the Year of the " Three tiievens," and stroll along the village street of Ger- 
niantown, we would find much to interest tlie ear and attract the eye. 

We would leave Chew's house behiiul us, and stroll along the village 
street. We would note the old time costumes of the villagers, the men clad 
ill coarse linsey wolsey, voluminous vests with wide lap|)els, breeches of 
buckskin, stockings and buckled shoes, while the head was defended by the 
'skimming dish hat;' we would admire the picturesque costume of the dames 
and damsels of Germantown, here and there a young lady of "quality" 
mincing her way in all the glory of high-heeled shoes, intricate head-dress, 



THE CAMP OF THE BRITISHER. 31 

and fine silk gown, ;ill hooped and frilled ; there a stntely dame in frock of 
calico, newly hought and high-prieed; but most woidd we admire the blush- 
ing damsel of the village, her full round cheeks peeping from beneath the 
kerchief thrown lightly around her rich brown lucks, her blue eyes glancing 
mischievously hither and thither, her bust, full rounded and swelling with 
youth and health, enclosed in the tight bodice, while the rustic petticoat of 
brown linsey wolsey, short enough to disclose a neat ancle and a little foot, 
would possess more attractions for our eyes, than the frock of calico or 
gown of silk. 

We woukl stroll along the street of the village, and listen to the conver- 
sation of the villagers. Every tongue speaks of war, the old man whispers 
the word as his grey hairs wave in the moonlight, the mother murmurs the 
syllable of terror as the babe seeks the shelter of her bosom, tiie boy gaily - 
shouts the word, as he brantlishes the rusted fowling piece in the air, and 
the village beau, seated beside his sweetheart, mutters that word as the 
thought of the British ravislier flashes over his mind. 

Strolling from Chew's House, we would pass the nRixoiiuRSTS, seated 
on their porch, the Heli.igs, the Peters, the Unrods just opposite the old 
Grave Yard, and the Lippards, and the Johnsons, below the grave yard> 
at the opposite corners of the lane leading back to the township line; we 
would stroll by the mansion of the Keysers, near the Mennonist grave yard ; 
further down we would pass the Knoors, the Haixes, the Pastorius', the 
Hergesimers, the Engles, the Cookes, the Conrads, the SchjEffers, and 
the hundred other faniilies of Germantown, descendants of old German stock, 
as seated on the porch in front of the mansion, each family circle discussed 
the terrible topic of war, bloodshed, battle, and death. 

Nor would we forget the various old time families, bearing the names of 
Nice — Moyer — Bowman — Weaver — Bock ins — Forrest — Billmeyer — Lei- 
bert — Matthias. These names may not figure brilliantly in history, but 
their's was the heraldry of an honest life. 

And at every step, we woidd meet a British soldier, strutting by in his 
coat of crimson, on every side we would behold the gleam of British arms, 
and our ears would he saluted by the roll of British drums, beating the tattoo, 
and the signid cannon, announcing the hour of repose. 

And as midiiight gathered over the roofs of the town, as the bayinif of the 
watchdog broke upon our ears, mingled with the challenge of the sentinel, 
we would stroll over the lawn of Chew's House, note the gra^s o-rowinw 
greenly and freshly, heavy with dew, and then gazing upon the heavens, our 
hearts would ask the question, whether no omen of blood in the skies, 
heralded the door and the death of the morrow ? 

Oh, there is something of horror in the anticipation of a certain death, 
when we know as surely as we know our own existence, that a coming 
battle will send scores of souls shrieking to their last account, when the 
green lawn, now silvered by the moonlight, will be soddened with blood. 



32 THE BATTLE OF CERMANTOWN. 

when tlie ancient mansion, now rising in the midnight air, like an emblem 
of rural ease, with its chimneys and its roof sleeping in the moonbeams, will 
be a scene of terrible contest with sword, and ball, and bayonet; when the 
roof will smoke wilh the lodged cannon ball, when tiie windows will send 
their volumes of flame across tiie lawn, when all around will be mist and 
gloom, grappling foemen, heaps ot dying mingled with the dead, charging 
legions, and recoiling squadrons. 

IV.— THE NIGIIT-.MAllCII. 

And as the sun went down, on that calm day of autumn, shooting his 
level beams thro' the wilds of the rivulet of the Skippack, there gathered 
within the woods, and along the shores of that stream, a gallant and despe- 
rate army, with every steed ready for the march, with the columns mar- 
shalled for the journey of death, every man with his knapsack on his shoul- 
der, and musket in his grasp, while the broad banner of the Continental 
Host drooped heavily over head, its folds rent and torn by the light of 
Brandywiiic, waving solemnly in the twilight.* 

The tents were struck, the camp fires where had been prepared the hasty 
supper of the soldier, were slill burning ; the neighing of steeds, and the sup- 
pressed rattle of arms, rang thro' the grove startling the niglit-bird of the 
Skippack, when the uncertain light of a decaying flame, glowing around the 
stump of a giant oak, revealed a scene of strange interest. 

The (lame-light fell upon the features of a gallant band of heroes, circling 
round the fire, each with his war cloak, drooping over his shoulder, half 
concealing the uniform of blue and buff; each with sword by his side, cha- 
peau in hand, ready to spring upon his war-steed neighing in the grove hard 
by. at a moments warning, while every eye was fi.xed upon the face of the 
chieftain who stood in their midst. 

By the soul of Mad Anihony it was a sight that would have stirred a 
man's blood to look upon — that sight of the gallant chieftains of a gallant 
band, clustering round the camp fire, in the last and most solemn council of 
war, ere they spurred their steeds forward in the march of death. 

Tiie man with the form of inajcsly, and that calm, impenetrable face, 
lighted by the hidden fire of soul, bursting forth ever and again in the glance 
of his eye! Had you listened to the murmurs of the dying on the field of 
Brandywine you would have heard the name, that ha* long since become a 
sound of prayer and blessing on the tongues of nations — the name of Wash- 
ington. And by his side was Grkene, his fine countenance wearing a 
shade of serious thought ; and there lisdessly thrusting his glittering sword 
in the embers of the decaying fire, wilh his fierce eyes fixed upon the earth, 
while his mustachioed lip gave a stern expression to his face, was the man 



The Skippack, the reader will remember, was some 16 miles from Germantown. 



THE NIGIIT-MARCH. 33 

of Poland and the Patriot of Brandy wine, Pulaski, whom it were tautology 
to call the brave ; tlierc was the towering form of Sullivan, there was 
Conway, with his fine face and expressive features, there was Arjistrono 
and Nash and Maxwell and Stirling and Stephens, all brave men and 
true, side by side with the gallant Smallwood of Maryland, and the stalwart 
FoRsiAN of .Jersey. 

And there with his muscular chest, clad in the close buttoned blue coat, 
with his fatigue cloak thrown over his left shoulder, with his hand resting 
on the hilt of his sword, was the hero of Chadd's Ford, the Commander of 
the Massacred of Paoli, the future avenger of Stony Point, Anthony Wayne, 
whom the soldiers loved in their delight to name Mad Anthony ; shouting 
that name in the hour of the charge and in the moment of deatli like a watch- 
word of terror to the Brilisii Army. 

Clustered around their Chief, were the aids-de-camp of Washington, John 
Marshall, afterwards Chief Justice of the States, Alexander Hamilton, 
gifted, gallant, and brave, Washington's counsellor in the hour of peril, his 
bosom friend and confidant, all standing in the same circle with Pickering 
and Lee, the Captain of the Partizan Band, with his slight form and swarthy 
face, who was on that eventful night detailed I'or duly near the Commander- 
in-chief. 

And as they stood there clustered round the person of Washington, in a 
mild yet decided voice, the chieftain spoke to them of the plan of the con- 
templated surprise and battle. 

It was his object to take the British by surprise. He intended for the 
accomplishment of this object, to attack them at once on the front of the 
centre ; and on the front, flank and rear of each wing. This plan of ope- 
ration would force the American commander to extend the continental army 
over a surface of from five to seven miles. 

In order to make this plan of attack effective, it would be necessary for 
the American army to seperate near Skippack, and advance to Germantown 
in four divisions, marching along as many roads. 

General Armstrong with the Pennsylvania militia, .3000 strong, was to 
march down the Miinritawni/ road (now Ridge road,) and traversing the 
shores of the Schuylkill, until the beautiful Wissahikon poured into its 
bosom, he was to turn the left (lank of the enemy at Vanditrings (now Rob- 
inson's Mdl,) and then advance eastward, along the bye roads, until two 
miles distance between this mill and the (icrniantown market-house were 
accomplished. ' 

Meanwhile the Militia of Maryland and New Jersey, were to take up 
their line of march some seven or eight miles to the eastward of Armstrong's 
position, and over three miles distance from Germantown. They were to 
luarch down the Old York Road, turn the right flank of the enemy, and 
attack it in the rear, also entering the town at the inarket-house, which was 
the central point of operation for all the divisions. 



34 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOVVN. 

Between Germantown and Old York Koad, at the distance of near two 
miles from llie vilhige, extends a road, called Limekiln road. The divisions 
of Greene anil Stcpliens flanked by McDoujiars Brigade were to take a 
circuit by this road, and attack the front of the enemy's right wing. They 
also were to enter the town by the market-house. 

'I'he main body, with which was Washington, Wayne, and Sullivan, were 
to advance toward Germantown by the Great Nordiern Koad, entering the 
town bv way of Ciiesnut Hill, some four miles distant from tiie Market-house. 

A column of this body was led on by Sullivan, another by Wayne, and 
Convay's Brigade flanked the entire division. 

While these four divisions advanced, the division of Lord Stirlinir, com- 
bined with the brigades of Maxwell and IS'ash were to form a corps de 
reserve. 

The reader, and the student of American History, has now the plan of 
battle spread out before him. In order to take in the full particulars of this 
magniticcnt plan of battle, it may be necessary to remember the exact nature 
of the ground around (iermantown. 

In some places plain and level, in others broken by ravines, rendered in- 
tricate by woods, tangled by thickets, or traversed by streams, it was in its 
most accessible points, and most favorable aspects, broken by enclosures, 
diflicidt fences, massive stone walls, or other boundary marks of land, ren- 
dering the operation of calvary at all times hazardous, and often impassible. 

In the vicinage of the town, for near a mile on either side, the land spread 
greenly away, in level fields, stdl broken by enclosures, and then came thick 
woods, steep hills and dark ravines. 

The base line of operations was the country around Skippack Creek, 
from which point, Washington, like a mighty giant, spread forth the four 
arms of his force, clutching the enemy in front, on his wings and on the 
rear, all at the same moment. 

It was a magnificent plan of battle, and success already seemed to hover 
round the American banner, followed by a defeat of the British, as terrible 
as that of Yorktown, when the red-coat heroes of Germantown struck their 
own Lion from his rock. 

As \\'ashingion went over the details of battle, each brave officer and 
scarred chieftain leaned forward, taking in every word, with absorbing in- 
terest, and then receiving the orders of his commander, with the utmost 
attention and consideration. 

All was now planned, everything was ready for the march, each General 
mounted on his war-steed, rode to the head of his division, and with a low 
solemn peal of music, the night-march of Germantown connnenced. 

And through the solemn hours of that night, along the whole valley, on 
every side, was heard the half suppressed sound of marching legions, min. 
gled with the low muttered word of command, the clank of arms and the 
neighing of war-steeds — all dim and indistinct, yet terrible to hear. — The 



THE DAYBREAK WATCH. 



35 



farmer sleeping on his humble couch, rus'iej to tlie window of Iiis rustic 
mansion at tlie sound, and while his wile stood beside hira, all tremor and 
aflVight, and his little ones clung to his knees, he saw vvilh a mingled look 
of surprise and fear, the forms of an armed band, some on horse and some 
on foot, sweeping llirougli his grci-n fields, as the dim moonbeams gleaming 
throui;h the gathering mist and gloom, siioiie over glittering arms, and dusky 
banners, all gliding past, like phantoms of the Spectre Land. 



ilart ttie SrtonJjf. 



THE BATTLE MORN. 



"Ghastly and white, 
ThroiiL'h the cloom of the night. 
From plain and Iriiin heaili, 
Lilie a shroud of death. 
The mist all slowly and sullenly sweeps — 
A shroud of death for the myriad bravo, 
Who to-morrow shall lind the tombless 
grave — 
In mid heaven now a bright spirit weeps ; 
While sullenly, slowly rises that pall, 
Crimson tears for the brave who shall 

fall, 
Crimson tears for the dead without tomb. 
Crimson tears for the death and the 

doom — 
Crimson tears for an angel's sorrow, 
For the havoc, the bloodshed, the car- 
nage and gloom. 
That shall startle the field on the mor- 
row ; — 
And up to the heavens now whitens the 
mist, 



Shrouding the moon with a fiery glare; 

Solemn voices now startle the air. 

To their sounds of omen you are fain to 

list: 
To listen and tremble, and hold your 

breath ; 
While the air is thronging with shapes of 

death. 
" On, on over valley and plain the legions 

tramp. 
Scenting the foemen who sleep in their 

camp ; 
Now bare the sword from its sheath blood- 
red. 
Now dig the pits for the unwept dead : 
Now let the cannon t;ive liaht to the hour 
And carnage slalk forth in his crimson 

power, 
Lo ! on the plain lay myriads gasping for 

breath — 
While the mist it is rising — the Shkoud 

OF Death !" 



1.— THE DAYBREAIi W.VTCH. 

Along the porch of an ancient mansion, surtnounting the height of Mount 
Airy, strode the sentinel of the British picket, his tall form looming like the 
figure of a giant in the gatheritig mist, while the rausquet on his shoulder 
was grasped by a hand red with American blood. 

He strode slowly along the porch, keeping his lonely watch ; now turn- 
ing to gaze at the darlc shadow of the mansion towering above him, now 
fixing his eye along the Germantown road, as it wound down the hill, on its 
northward course ; and again he gazed upon the landscape around him, 
wrapt in a gathering mist, which chilled his blood, and rendered all objects 
around him dim and indistinct. 

All around was vague and shadowy. The mist, with its white wreaths 



36 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

and snowy columns, came sweeping up on every side, from llie bosom of 
tlie Wissaiiilion, from the dcpliis of a tiiousand brooklets, over hill and over 
valley, circled ihat dense and gathering cxlialalion ; covering the woods with 
its giiastly pall, rolling over the plains, and winding upward around the 
height of Mount Airy, enveloping the cottages opposite the sentinel, in its 
folds of gloom, and confining the view to a space of twenty paces from the 
porch, where he kept his solitary watch — to him, a watch of death. 

It is now daybreak, and a strange sound meets that soldier's ear. It is 
now daybreak, and his comrades sleep within the walls of Allen's house, and 
a strange, low, murmuring noise, heard from a great distance, causes him to 
incline his ear with attention, and to listen with hushed breath and parted lips. 

He listens. The night wore on. 'I'he blood-red moon was there in the 
sky, looking out from the mist, like a funeral torch shining through a shroud. 

The Sentinel bent his head down upon the porch, and with that musqiiet, 
red with the carnage of Brandywine, in his hand, he listens. It is a distant 
sound — very distant ; like the rush of waters, or the moaning of the young 
August storm, bursting into life amid the ravines of the far-oil' mountains. 
It swells on the ear — it spreads to the east and to the west: it strikes the 
sentinel's heart with a strange fear, and he shoulders his rausquet with a 
firmer grasp ; and now a merry smile wreathes his lips. 

That sound — it is the rush of waters : the Wissahikon lias flooded its 
banks, and is pouring its torrents over the meadows, while it rolls onward 
towards the Schuylkill. The sentinel smiles at his discovery, and resumes 
his measured stride. He is rigiit — and yet not altogether right. A stream 
has burst its banks, but not the Wissahikon. A stream of vengeance — dark, 
wild, and terrible, vexed by passion, aroused by revenge, boiling and seeth- 
ing from its unfathomable deeps — is flowing from the north, and on its bosom 
are borne men with strong arms and stout hearts, swelling the turbulence of 
the waters ; while the gleam of sword and bayonet flashes over the dark 
waves. 

The day is breaking — sadly and slowly breaking, along the veil of niist^ 
that whitens over the face of nature like a Shroi'd of Death for millions. 
The sentinel leans idly upon the bannisters of the porch, relaxes the grasp 
of his musqiict, inclines his head to one side, and no longer looks upon the 
face of nature covered by mist. He sleeps. The sound not long ago far 
ofi", is now near and mighty in its volume, the tramp of steeds stardes the 
silence of the road, suppressed tones are heard, and there is a noise like llie 
moving of legions. 

II.— THE FIRST CORSE OF GERMANTOWN. 

And yet he sleeps — he dreams ! Shall we guess his dream ? That home, 
liidden away yonder in the shadows of an English dell — he is approaching 
its threshhold. 



THE FIRST CORSE OF GERMANTOWN'. 37 

Yes, down the old path by tlie mill — he sees his native cottage — his aged 
father stands in the door — his sister, whom he left a young girl, now grown 
into a blooming woman, beckons him on. He reaches her side — presses 
her lips, and in that kiss hushes her welcome — " Brother, have you come 
at last !" 

But, ah ! That horrid sound crashing through his dream ! 

He wakes, — wakes there on tlie porch of the old mansion — he sees that 
rifle-blaze ilashing through the mist — he feels the death-shot, and then falls 
dead to wake in Eternity. 

That rifle-blaze, flashing through the mist, is the first shot of the Batde-day 
of Germantown. 

And that dead man, flung along the porch in all the ghasdiness of sudden 
death — cold and stiff there, while his Sister awakes from her sinless sleep 
to pray for him, three thousand miles away — is the first dead man of that 
day of horror ! 

And could we wander yonder, up through the mists of this fearful morning, 
even to the Throne of Heaven, we might behold the Prayer of the Sister, 
the Soul of the Brother, meet face to face before Almighty God. 

And now listen to that sound, thundering yonder to the North, and now 
stand here on the porch of Allen's house, and see the Legions come ! 

They break from the folds of the mist, the Men of Brandywine — foot- 
soldiers and troopers come thundering up the hill. 

The blood-red moon, shining from yonder sky, like a funeral torch through 
a shroud, now glares upon the advancing legions — over the musquets glit- 
tering in long lines, over the war-horses, over the drawn swords, over the 
flags rent with bullet and bayonet, over the broad Banner of Stars. 

Allen's house is surrounded. The soldiers of the picket guard rush wildly 
from their beds, from the scene of their late carousal by the fire, they rush 
and seize their arms — but in vain ! A blaze streams in every window^ 
soldier after soldier falls heavily to tlie floor, the picket guard are wilh the 
Dead Sentinel. Allen's house is secured, and the hunt is up ! 

God of Battles, what a scene ! The whole road, farther than the eye 
could see, farther than the ear could hear, crowded by armed men, hurrying 
over Chesnut Hill, hurrying along the valley between Chesnut Hill and 
Mount Airy, sweeping up the hill of Allen's house, rushing onward in one 
dense column, with the tall form of Sullivan at their head, while the war 
shout of Anthony Wayne is borne along by the morning breeze. There, 
riding from rank to rank, speeding from battahon to battalion, from column 
to column, a form of majesty sweeps by, mounted on a steed of iron grey, 
waving encouragement to the men, while every lip repeats the whisper, and 
every heart beats at the sound, echoed like a word of magic along the lines — 
" There he rides — how grandly his form towers in the mist; it's Washing- 
ton — it's Washington !" and the whole army take up the sound — " It is 
Washington !" 

3 



as THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

Allen's house was passed, iinil now tlic path of the central body of the 
army lay along the descent of the road from Mount Airy, for the space of a 
mile, until the quarters of Colonel Musgravc's regiment were reached. 

The descent was like the path of a hurricane. The light of the break- 
ing day, streaming dindy through mist and gloom, fell over the forms of the 
patriot band as they swept down the hill, every man with Iiis musquct ready 
for the charge, every trooper with his sword drawn, every eye fixed upon 
the slirond of mist in front of their path, in the vain effort to gaze upon the 
position of the advance post of the enemy a mile below, every heart throb- 
bing wildly with the excitement of the coming contest, and all prepared for 
the keen encounter, — the fight, hand to liand, foot to foot, the charge of 
death, and the sweeping hail of the iron cannon ball and tlie leaden bullet. 

How it would have made your lieart throb, and beat and throb again, to 
have stood on that hill of Mount Airy, and looked upon the legions as they 
rushed by. 

Sullivan's men have passed, they are down the hill, and you see thera 
below, — rank after rank disappearing in the pall of the enveloping mist. 

Here they come — a band brave and true, a band with scarred faces and 
sunburnt visages, with rusted musqucts and tattered apparel, yet with true 
liearts and stout hands. These are the men of Taoli ! 

And there, riding in their midst, as though his steed and himself were but 
one animal — so well he backs that steed, so like is the battle-fever" of 
horse, with the waving mane and glaring eye, to the wild rage that stamps 
the warrior's face — there in the midst of the Men of Paoli, rides their 
leader — Mad Anthony Wayne ! 

And then his voice — how it rings out upon the morning air, rising above 
the clatter of arms and the tramp of steeds, rising in a mighty shout — "On, 
boys, on ! In a moment we'll have them. On, comrades, on — and remeu- 
DER Paoli !" 

And then comes the bnnd with tiic gallant Frenchman at their head ; the 
brave Conway, brave though unfortunate, also rushing wildly on, in the train 
of the hunt. Your eye sickens as you gaze over file after file of brave men, 
with mean apparel and meaner arms, some half clad, others well nigh bare- 
foot, yet treading gaily over the flint)- ground ; some with fragments of a 
coat on their backs, others without covering for their heads, all marked by 
wounds, all thinned by hunger and disease, yet every man of them is firm, 
every hand is true, as it clutches the musquel with an eager grasp. 

Ha ! That gallant band who come trooping on, spurring their stout steeds, 
with wide haunches and chests of iron, hastily forward, that band with every 
face seemed by scars, and darkened by tiie thick nnistachio, everj' eye 
gleaming beneath a knit brow, every swarthy hand raising the iron sword on 
high. They wear the look of foreigners, the maimer of men trained to fight 
in the exterminating wars of Europe. 

And tlieir leader is tall and well-proportioned, widi a dark-hued face, 



THE FIRST CORSE OF GERMANTOWN. 39 

marked by a compressed lip, rendered fierce by the overhanging mustachio ; 
his brow is shaded by the trooper's pUmie, and his hand grasps the trooper's 
sword. He speaks to his men in a foreign tongue, lie reminds them of the 
wcjl-fovight field on the plain of Poland, he whispers a quick, terrible me- 
mento of Brandy wine and I'aoli, and the clear word rings from his lips: 

" Forwarts, — brudern, — forwarts !" 

It is the band of Pulaski sweeping past, eager for the hmit of death, and 
as they spur their steeds forward, a terrible confusion arises far ahead. 

There is flashing of strange fires through the folds of mist, lifting the 
snow-white pall for a moment — there is rolling of nuisquetry, ratding like 
the thunderbolt ere it strikes — there is the tramp of hurrying legions, the 
far-off shout of the charging continentals, and the yells and shouts of the 
surprised foemen. 

Sullivan is upon the camp of the enemy, upon them with the terror of 
ball and bayonet. They rush from their camp, they form hastily across the 
road, in front of their baggage, each rcd-coatcd trooper seeks his steed, each 
footman grasps his musquet, and the loud voice of Musgrave, echoing wildly 
along the line of crimson attire and flashing bayonets, is heard above all other 
sounds, — " Form — lads, form — full in there — to your arms, lads, to your 
arms. — Form, comrades, form !" 

In vain his shouting, in vain the haste of his men rushing from their beds, 
into the very path of the advancing continentals ! 'J'he men of Sullivan are 
upon them ! They sweep on with one bold front — the forms of the troop- 
ers, mounted on their war-steeds, looming through the mist, as with sword 
upraised, and battle-shout pealing to the skies, they lead on the charge of 
death ! 

A moment of terror, a moment made an age by suspense ! The troopers 
meet, mid-way in their charge, horse to horse, sword mingled with sword, 
eye glaring in eye, they meet. The ground quivers with an earthquake 
shock. Steeds recoil on their haunches, the British strew the road-side, 
flooding the dust with their blood, and the music of batfle, the fierce music 
of dying groans and cries of death, rises up with the fog, starfling the very 
heavens with its discord ! 

The hunt is up ! 

" On — boys — on" — rings the voice of Mad Anthony — " on — comrades — 
on — and Remember Paoli !" 

" Cliarge .'" sounds the voice of Washington, shrieking along the line, 
like the voice of a mighty spirit — " upon ihem — over them !" Conway 
re-echoes the sound, Sullivan has already made the air ring with his shout, 
and now Pulaski takes up the cry — " Forwarts — bnidcrn — Forwarts I" 

The hunt is up ! 

The British face the bayonets of the advancing Americans, but in vain ! 
Each bold backwoodsman sends his volley of death along the British line> 
and then clubbing his musquet, rushes wildly forward, beating the red-coat 



40 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOVVN. 

to the 8od with a bloVir that cannot be stayed. The British troopers rush 
forward in the charge, but ere half the distance between them and tlie Amer- 
can host is measured, Mad Antliony comes thundering on, with his Legion 
of Iron, and as liis war-sliout swells on the air, the red-coats are driven back 
by the hurricane force of his charge, the ground is strewn with the dying, 
and the red hoofs of tiie horse trample madly over the faces of the dead. 

Wayne charges, Pulaski charges, Conway brings up his men, and Wash- 
ington is there, in front of the battle, hia sword gleaming like a meteor 
through the gloom. 

The fire of the infantry, spreading a sheeted flame thro' the folds of the 
mist, lights up the scene. The never-ceasing clang of sword against sword, 
the low muttered shriek of the fallen, vainly trying to stop the flow of 
blood, the wild yell of the soldier, gazing madly round as he receives his 
death wound, the shout of the charge, and the involuntary cry of 'quarter,' 
all furnish a music most dread and horrible, as tho' an infernal band were 
urging on the work of slaughter, with their notes of fiendish mockerj'. 

That flash of musquetry ! What a light it gives the scene ! Above, 
clouds of white mist and lurid smoke ; around, all hurry, and tramp, and 
motion; faces darkened by all the passions of a demon, glaring madly in the 
light, blood red hands upraised, foemen grappling in contest, swords rising 
and falling, circling and glittering, the forms of the wounded, with their faces 
buried in the earth, the ghastly dead, all heaped up in positions of ludicrous 
mockery of death, along the roadside ! 

That flash of musquetry ! 

The form of Washington is in the centre of the fight, the battle-glare 
lighting up his face of majesty ; the stalwart form of Wayne is seen riding 
hither and thither, waving a dripping sword in his good right hand ; the 
figure of Pulaski, dark as the form of an eartli-riven spirit of some Geriuaa 
story, breaks on your eye, as enveloped in mist, he seems rushing every 
where at the same moment, fighting in all points of the contest, hurrying his 
men onward, and driving the afirighted British before him witli the terror 
of his charge. 

And Col. Musgrave — where is he ? 

lie shouts the charge to his men, he hurries hither and thither, he shouts 
till he is hoarse, he fights till his person is red witli the blood of his own 
men, slain before his very eyes, but all in vain ! 

lie shouts the word of retreat along his line — "Away, my men, away to 
Chew's House — away !" 

The retreat commences, and then indeed, the hunt of death is up in good 
earnest. 

The British wheel down the Germantown road, they turn their backs to 
their foes, they flee wildly toward Germantown, leaving their dead and 
dying in their wake, man and horse, they flee, some scattering tlieir arms by 
the roadside, others weakened by loss of blood, feebly endeavoring to join 



THE FIRST CORSE OF GERMANTOWN. 41 

the retreat, and then falling dead in the path of the pursuers, who with one 
bold front, with one firm step rush after the British in their flight, ride down 
the fleeing ranks, and scatter death along the hurrying columns. 

The fever of bloodshed grows hotter, the chase grows fearful in interest, 
the hounds who so often have worried down the starved Americans, are 
now hunted in their turn. 

And in the very van of pursuit, his tall form seen by every soldier, rode 
George Washington, his mind strained to a pitch of agony, as the crisis of 
the contest approached, and by his side rode Mad Anthony Wayne, now 
Mad Anthony indeed, for his whole appearance was changed, his eye 
seemed turned to a thing of living flame, his face was begrimed with 
powder, his sword was red with blood, and his battle-shout rung fiercer on 
the air — 

" Over them boys — upon them — over them, and Remember Paoli !" 

" Now Wayne, now" — shouted Washington — " one charge more and we 
have them !" 

" Forwarts — brildern — forwarts !" shouted Pulaski, as his iron band came 
thundering on — " Forwarts — for Washington — Forwarts !" 

The British leader wheeled his steed for a moment, and gazed upon his 
pursuers. All around was bloodshed, gloom, and death ; mist and smoke 
above ; flame around, and mangled corses below. — With one hoarse shout, 
he again bade his men make for Chew's House, and again the dying seaf 
tered along the path looked up, and beheld the British sweeping madly 
down the road. 

The vanguard of the pursuers had gained the upper end of Chew's wall, 
when the remnant of the British force disappeared in the fog ; file after file 
of the crimson-coated British were lost to sight in the mist, and in the very 
heat and flush of the chase, the American army was brought to a halt in 
front of Chew's wall, each soldier falling back on his comrade with a sud- 
den movement, while the officers gazed on each other's faces in vain inquiry 
for the cause of this unexpected delay. 

The fog gathered in dense folds over the heads of the soldiers, thicker 
and more dense it gathered every instant ; the enemy was lost to sight in 
the direction of Chew's lawn, and a fearful pause of silence, from the din 
and tumult of bloodshed, ensued for a single moment. 

Bending from his steed in front of the gate that led into Chew's lawn, 
Washington gazed round upon the faces of his staff', who circled him on 
every side, with every horse recoiling on his haunches from the sudden ef- 
fect of the halt. 

Washington was about to speak as he leaned from his steed, with his 
sword half lowered in the misty air, he was about to speak, and ask the 
meaning of this sudden disappearance of the British, when a lurid flash 
lifted up the fog from the lawn, and the thunder of musquetry boomed along 



42 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

the air, co}ioing among the nooks and corners of the ancient houses on the 
opposite side of the street. 

Another moment, and a soldier with face all crimsoned with blood and 
darkened by battle smoke, nislicd thro' the group clustering around the horse 
of Washington, and in a hurried voice announced that the remnant of the 
British Upgiment liad thrown themselves into the substantial stone mansion 
ou the left, and seemed determined to make good, a desperate defence. 

" Wiiat say you, gentlemen" — cried Washington — " shall we press on- 
ward into the town, and attack tiie main body of the enemy at once, or shall 
we first drive the enemy from their strong hold, at this mansion on our left ?" 

The answer of Wayne was short and to the point. " Onward !" — he 
shouted, and his sword rose in tiie air, all dripping with blood — " Onward 
into the town — our soldiers are warmed with the chase — onward, and with 
anodicr blow, we Iiave them !" 

And tiie gallant Hamilton, the brave Pickering, the gifted Marshall, echoed 
the cry — " Onward — " while the hoarse shout of Pulaski rang out in the 
air — " Forwarts — brildern — Forwarts !" 

" It is against every rule of military science — " exclaimed General Knox, 
whose opinion iu council was ever valuable with Washington — " It is 
against every rule of military science, to leave a fortified stronghold in the 
rear of an advancing army. Let us first reduce the mansion on our left, 
and then move forward into the centre of the town !" 

There was another moment of solemn council ; the older ofllcers of the 
gtaff united in opinion with Knox, and with one quick anxious glance 
around the scene of fog and mist, Washington gave the orders to storm the 
house. 

And at the word, while a steady volume of flame was flashing from Chew's 
House, every window pouring forth its blaze, glaring over the wreath of 
mist, the continentals, horse and foot, formed across the road, to the north 
of the house, eager for the signal which would bid them advance into the 
very jaws of death. 

The artillery were ranged some three hundred yards from the mansion — 
their cannon being placed on a slight elevation, and pointed at the north-west 
corner of the house. This was one of the grand mistakes of the battle, oc- 
casioned by the density of the fog. Had the cannon been placed in a 
proper position, llie house would have been reduced ere the first warm flush 
of pursuit was cold on the clieeks of the soldiers. 

But the fog gathered thicker and more densely around, the soldiers 
moved like men moving in the dark, and all was vague, dim, undefined and 
uncertain. 

All was ready for the storm. Here were men with firebrands, ready to 
rush forward under the cover of the first volley of musquetry and fire the 
house ; here were long lines of soldiers grasping their guns with a quick 
nervous movement, one foot advanced in the act of springing forward; 



THE FLAG OF TRUCE. 43 

yonder were the cannoniers, their pieces loaded, the linstock in the hand 
of one soldier, while another stood ready with the next charge of ammuni- 
tion ; on every side was intense suspense and expectation, and heard above 
all other sounds, the rattle of the British musquetry rose like thunder over 
Chew's lawn, and seen the brightest of all other sights, the light of the 
British guns, streamed red and lurid over the field, giving a strange bril- 
liancy to the wreaths of mist above, and columns of armed men below. 

III.— THE FLAG OF TRUCE. 

Tradition states that at this moment, when every thing was ready for 
the storm of death, an expression of the most intense thought passed over 
the impenetrable countenance of Washington. Every line of his features 
was marked by thought, his lip was sternly compressed, and his eye 
gathered a strange fire. 

He turned to the east, and bent one long anxious look over the white 
folds of mist, as though he would pierce the fog with his glance, and gaze 
upon the advancing columns of Greene and Stephen. lie inclined his head 
to one side of his steed, and listened for the tramp of their war-horses, but 
in vain. He turned towards Germantown ; all was silent in that direction, 
the main body of the enemy were not yet in motion. 

And then in a calm voice, he asked for an officer who would consent to 
bear a flag of truce to the enemy. A young and gallant officer of Lee's 
Rangers, sprang from his horse ; his name Lieut. Smith ; he assumed the 
snow-white flag, held sacred by all nations, and with a single glance at the 
Continental array, he advanced to Chew's House. 

In a moment he was lost to sight amid the folds of the fog, and his way 
lay over the green lawn for some two hundred yards. All was still and 
silent around him. Tradition states that the fire from the house ceased for 
a moment, while Musgrave's band were silently maturing their plan of des- 
perate defence. The young soldier advanced along his lonely path, speed- 
ing through the bosom of the fog, all objects lost to his sight, save the green 
verdure of the sod, yet uncrimsoned by blood, and here and there the trunk 
of a giant tree looming blackly through the mist. 

The outline of a noble mansion began to dawn on his eye, first the slop- 
ing roof, then the massive chimneys, then the front of the edifice, and then 
its windows, all crowded with soldiers in their crimson attire, whiskered 
face appearing above face, with grisly musquet and glittering bayonet, thrust 
out upon the air, while with fierce glances, the hirelings looked forth into 
the bosom of that fearful mist, which still like a death-shroud for millions, 
hung over the lawn, and over the chimneys of the house. 

The young officer came steadily on, and now he stood some thirty paces 
from the house, waving his white flag on high, and then with an even step 
he advanced toward the hall door. He advanced, but he never reached 



44 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

that hall door. He was witliiii the scope of the British soldiers' vision, 
they could have'almost loiio.lied liim with an extended (lag slafT, when the 
loud word of command rang through the house, a volley of fire blazed from 
every window, and the whole American army saw the fog lifted from the 
surface of tiie lawn, like a vast curtain from the scenes of a magnificent 
theatre. 

Slowly and heavily that curtain uprose, and a hail storm of bullets 
whistled across tiic plain, when the soldiers of the Continental host looked 
for their messenger of peace. 

They beheld a gallant form in front of the mansion. lie seemed making 
an effort to advance, and tiicn he tottered to and Iro, and his white flag dis- 
appeared for a moment ; and the next instant he fell down like a heavy 
weight upon the sod, and a hand trembling with the pulse of death was 
raised above his head, waving a white llag in the air. That flag was 
stained with blood : it was the warm blood llowing from the young Vir- 
ginian's heart. 

Along liic whole American line there rang one wild yell of horror. Old 
men raised their musquets on high, while tiie tears gathered in their eyes ; 
the young soldiers all moved forward with one sudden step ; a wild light 
blazed in the eye of Wasiiington ; Wayne waved his dripping sword on 
high ; Pulaski raised his proud form in the stirrups, and gave one meaning 
glance to his men ; and then, through every rank and file, through every 
column and solid square, rang the terrible words of command, and high 
above all other sounds was heard the voice of Washington — 

" Charge, for your country and for vengeance — chakge !" 



9 • ^ 

CHEW'S HOUSE. 

Now bare llie sword from ils sheath blood-red, 

'Tis wet with tho fjofe of the massacred dead; 

Now raise the sword in the cause most lioly — 

And while the whispers of ghosts break on your ear, 
Oil! strike without mercy, or pity, or fear; 

Oh .' strike/or the matsacred dead of Paoli ! 

Revolutionart Sowo. 
1.— tug forlorn hope. 

And while the mist githrred thicker and darker above, while the lurid 
columns of battle smoke waved like a banner overhead, while all around 
was dim and indistinct, — all objects rendered larger and swelled to gigantic 



THE FORLORN HOPE. 45 

proportions by Iho action of the fog, — along that green lawn arose the 
sound of ciiarging legions, and the blaze of rausquetry flashing from the 
windows of Chew's house, gave a terriblo light to the theatre of death. 

Again, like a vast curtain, the mist uprose, — again were seen armed men 
brandisiiing swords aloft, or presenting fi.\ed bayonets, or holding the sure 
rifle in tiieir unfailing grasp, or yet again waving torches on high, all rushing 
madly forward, stiU in regular columns, file after file, squadron after squad- 
ron — a fierce array of battle and of death. 

It was a sight worth a score of peaceful years to sec ! The dark and 
heavy pall of batUe smoke overhead, mingled with curling wreaths of snow- 
white mist — the curtain of tiiis theatre of death — the mansion of dark, grey 
stone, rising massive and ponderous from the lawn, each peak and corner, 
each buttress and each angle, sliown clearly by the light of the musquet 
flash — tlie green lawn spreading away from the house — the stage of tiie 
dread theatre — crowded by bands of advancing men, with arms glittering in 
the fearful light, with fierce faces stamped with looks of vengeance, sweep- 
ing forward with one steady step, tiieir eyes fixed upon the fatal honse ; 
while over their heads, and among their ranks, swept and fell the leaden 
builets of their foes, hissing through the air with the sound of serpents, or 
pattering on the sod like a hailstorm of death. 

And while a single brigade, with which was Washington and Sullivan 
and Wayne, swept onward toward the house, the other troops of tiie cen- 
tral division, extending east and west along the fields, were forced to remain 
inactive spectators of this scene of death, wiiilc each man vainly endeavored 
to pierce tiie gloom of the mist and smoke, and observe the course of the 
darkening fight. 

Some thirty yards of green lawn now lay between the forlorn hope of 
the advancing Americans and Chew's house ; all became suddenly still and 
hushed, and the continentals could hear their own foot tramp breaking upon 
the air with a deadened sound, as they swept onward toward the mansion. 

A moment of terrible stillness, and then a moment of bloodshed and hor- 
ror ! Like the crash of thunderbolts meeting in the zenith from distant 
points of the heavens, the sound of musquetry broke over the lawn, and 
from every window of Chew's house, from the hall door, and from behind 
the chimneys on the roof, rolled the dense columns of musquet smoke ; 
while on every side, overhead, around, and beneath, the musquet flash of 
the British glare^l like earth-riven lightning in the faces of the Americans, 
and then the mist and smoke came down like a pall, and for a moment all 
was dark as midnight. 

A wild yell broke along the American line, and then the voice of Wayne 
rung out through the darkness and the gloom — " Sweep forward under the 
cover of the smoke — sweep forward and storm the house !" 

They came rushing on, the gallant band of rangers, bearing torches in 
their hands — they came rushing on, and their path lay over tlie mangled 

4 



46 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

bodies of the forlorn hope, scattered along the sod, in all the ghaslliness of 
wounds and death, and at their backs advanced with measured step the firm 
columns of the continental army, while the air was heavy with tiic shriek 
of wounded men, and burdened with cries of atjony. 

On they swept, trampling over the face of the dead in the darkness and 
gloom, and then the terrible words of command rung out upon the air — 
" Advance and fire — advance and storm the house !" 

A volley of sheeted flame arose from the bosom of the fog along the 
lawn, the thunder of the American musquetry broke upon the air, and the 
balls were heard pattering against the walls of the house, and tearing splin- 
ters from the roof. 

Another moment, and the pall of mist and battle smoke is swept aside, 
revealing a scene that a thousand words might not describe — a scene whose 
hurry, and motion, and glare, and horror, the pencil of the artist might in 
vain essay to picture. 

There were glittering bayonets thrust from the windows of the house, — 
there were fierce faces, with stout forms robed in crimson attire, thrust from 
every casement, — there were bold men waving torches on high, rushing 
around the house ; here a party were piling up combustible brush-wood ; 
there a gallant band were aftixing their scaling ladder to a second story 
window, yonder another band were thundering away at the hall door, with 
musquct and battle axe ; while along the whole sweep of the wide lawn 
poured the fire of the continental host, with a flash like lightning, yet with 
uncertain and ineffectual aim. 

The hand of the soldier with the hand gathered near the combustible pile 
under a window — the hand of the soldier was extended with the blazing 
torch, he was about to fire the heap of faggots, when his shattered arm fell 
to his side, and a dead comrade came toppling over his chest. 

A soldier near the hall door had been foremost among that gallant band, 
the barricades were torn away, all obstructions well nigh cleared, and he 
raised his battle axe to hew the door in fragments, when the axe fell with a 
clanging sound upon the threshold stone, and his comrades caught his falling 
body in their arms, while his severed jaw hung loosely on his breast. 

The party who rushed forward in the endeavor to scale the window ! 
The ladder was fixed — across the trench dug around Chew's house it was 
fixed — the hands of two sturdy continentals held it firm, and a file of des- 
perate men, headed by a stalwart backwoodsman, in rough blue shirt and 
fur cap, with buck-tail plume, began the ascent of death. 

The foot of the backwoodsman touched the second round of the scaling 
ladder, when he sprang wildly in the air, over the heads of his comrades, 
and fell dead in the narrow trench, with a deatli shriek that rang in liie ears 
of all who heard it for life. A musquet ball had penetrated his skull, and 
the red torrent was already streaming over his forehead, and along his 
«warthy features. 



THE HORSEMAN AND HIS MESSAGE. 47 

The Americans again nislicd forward to the house, but it was like rush- 
ing into the embrace of death ; again they scaled the windows, again were 
they driven back, while the dead bodies of their comrades littered the trench ; 
again they strode boldly up to the hall door, and again did soldier after 
soldier crimson the threshold-stone with his blood. 

11.— THE HORSEMAN AND HIS MESSAGE. 

And while the battle swelled fiercest, and the flame flashing from the 
windows of Chew's house was answered by the volley of the continental 
brigade, two sounds came sweeping along the air, one from the south, and 
the other from the northwest. They were the sounds of marching men— 
the tread of hurrying legions. 

On the summit of a gentle knoll, surrounded by the ofiicers of his stafl", 
Washington had vi^atched the progress of the fight around Chew's mansion, 
not more than two hundred yards distant. 

With his calm and impenetrable face, wearing an unmoved expression, 
he had seen the continentals disappear in the folds of the fog, he had seen 
file after file marching on their way of death, he had heard the roar of con- 
test, the shrieks of the wounded and the yells of the dying had startled his 
ear, but not a muscle of his countenance moved, not a feature trembled. 

But when those mingling sounds of marching men came pealing on his 
ear, he inclined slightly to one side of his steed and then to the other, as if 
in the effort to catch the slightest sound, his lips were fixedly compressed 
and his eye flashed and flashed again, until it seemed turning to a thing of 
living flame. 

The sounds grew near, and nearer ! A horseman approached from the 
direction of Germantown, his steed was well nigh e.xhausted and the rider 
swayed heavily to and fro in the saddle. The horse came thundering up 
the knoll, and a man with a ghastly face, spotted with blood, leaned from 
the saddle and shrieked forth, as he panted for breath — 

" General — they are in motion — they are marching through Germantown 
— Kniphausen, Agnew, and Grey, they will be on you in a moment, and — 
Cornwallis — Cornwallis is sweeping from Philadelphia." 

The word had not passed his lips, when he feU from his steed a ghastly 
corpse. 

Another messenger stood by the side of Washington — his steed was also 
exhausted, and his face was covered with dust, but not with blood. He 
panted for breath as he shrieked forth an exclamation of joy : — 

" Greene is marching from the northwest — attracted by the fire in this 
quarter, lie has deviated from iiis path, and will be with you in a moment?" 

And as he spoke, the forms of a vast body of men began to move, dim 
and indistinctly, from the folds of the fog on the northwest, and then the 
glare of crimson was seen appearing from tlie bosom of the mist on the 



48 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

south, as a long column of red coated soldiers, began to break slowly on the 
vision of Washington and his men. 

III.— THE BRITISH GENERAL. 

Turn we for a moment to Germanlown. 

The first glimpse of day, flung a grey and solemn light over the tenements 
of Germantown, when the sound of distant thunder, aroused the startled 
inhabitants from their beds, and sent them hurriedly into the street. There 
they crowded in small groups, each one asking his neighbor for the expla- 
nation of this sudden alarm, and every man inclining his ear to the north, 
listening intendy to those faint yet terrible sounds, thundering along the 
northern horizon. 

The crowded moments of that eventful morn, wore slowly on. Ere the 
day was yet light, the streets of Germantown were all in motion, crowds 
of anxious men were hurrying hither and thither, mothers stood on the rustic 
porch, gathering their babes in a closer embrace, and old men, risen in haste 
from their beds, clasped their withered hands and lifted their eyes to heaven 
in muttered prayer, as their ears were starUed by the sounds of omen peal- 
ing from the north. 

The British leaders were yet asleep ; the soldiers of the camp, it is true, 
had risen hastily from their couches, and along the entire line of the British 
encampment, ran a vague, yet terrible rumor of coming battle and of sudden 
death ; yet the generals in command slept soundly in their beds, visited, it 
may be, with pleasant dreams of massacred rebels, fancy pictures of the 
night of Paoli, mingled with a graphic sketch of the head of Washington 
adorning one of the gates of London, while the grim visage of mad Anthony 
Wayne figured on another. 

The footstep of a booted soldier rang along the village street, near the 
market-house, in the centre of the village, and presently a tall grenadier 
strode up the stone steps of an ancient mansion, spoke a hurried word to 
the sentinel at the door, and then hastily entered the house. In a moment 
he stood beside the couch of General Grey, he roused him with a rude 
shake of his vigorous hands, and the startled » Britisher' sprang up as hastily 
from his bed as though he had been dreaming a dream of the terrible night 
of Paoli. 

" Your Excellency — the Rebels are upon us !" cried the grenadier— 
" they have driven in our outposts, they surround us on every side — " 

" We must fight it out — away to Kniphausen — away to Agnew — " 

" They are already in the field, and the men are about advancing to 
Chew's House." 

But a moment elapsed, and the Britisii general with his attire hung hastily 
over his person, rode to the head of his command, and while Kniphausen, 
gay with the laurels of Brandywine, rode from rank to rank, speaking 



THE LEGEND OF GENERAL AGNEW. 49 

encouragement to his soldiers in his broken dialect, the British army moved 
forward over the fields and along the solitary street of Germantown towards 
Chew's House. 

The brilliant front of the British extended in a flashing array of crimson, 
over the fields, along the street ; and through the wreaths of mist on every 
side shone the glitter of bayonets, on every hand was heard the terrible 
tramp of 16,000 men sweeping onward, toward the field of battle, their 
swords eager for American blood. 

As the column under command of General Agnew swept through the 
village street, every man noted the strange silence that seemed to have 
come down upon the village like a spell. The houses were all carefully 
closed, as though they had not been inhabited for years, the windows were 
barricaded ; tlie earthquake tramp of the vast body of soldiers was the 
only sound that disturbed the silence of the town. 

Not a single inhabitant was seen. Some had fled wildly to the fields, 
others had hastened with the strange and fearful curiosity of our nature to 
the very verge of the battle of Chew's House, and in the cellars of the 
houses gathered many a wild and affrighted group, mothers holding their 
little children to their breasts, old men wliose eyes were vacant with enfee- 
bled intellect, asking wildly the cause of all this alarm, while many a fair- 
cheeked maiden turned pale with horror, as the thunder of the cannon seemed 
to shake the very earth. 

IV.— THE LEGEND OF GENERAL AGNEW. 

A singular legend is told in relation to General Agnew. Tradition states, 
that on the eventful morn, as he led the troops onward through the town, a 
singular change was noted in his appearance. His cheeks were pale as 
death, his compressed Up trembled with a nervous movement, and his eyes 
glared hither and thither with a strange wild glance. 

He turned to the aid-de-camp at his side, and said with a ghastly smile, 
that this day's work would be his last on earth, that this battle-field would 
be the last he should fight, that it became him to look well at the gallant 
array of war, and share in the thickest of the fight, for in war and in fight 
should his hand this day strike its last and dying blow. 

And tradition states that as his column neared the Mennonist grave- 
yard,* a man of strange and wild aspect, clad in the skins of wild beasts, 
with scarred face and unshaven beard, came leaping over the grave-yard 
wall, and asked a soldier of the British column, with an idiotic smile whether 
that gallant officer, riding at the head of the men, was the brave General 
Grey, who had so nobly routed tlie rebels at Paoli ? 



* Adjoining the dwelling of Mr. Samuel Keyser, about three fourths of a mile be- 
low Chew's House. 



60 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. ^ 

The soldier replied with a peevish oath that yonder officer was General 
Grey, and he pointed to General Agnew as he spoke. 

Tlie strange man said never a word, but smiled with a satisfied look and 
sprang over the grave-yard wall, and as lie sprang, a bullet whistled past the 
ear of General Agnew, and a thin column of blue smoke wound upward 
from the grave-yard wall. 

The General turned and smiled. His officers would have searched the 
grave-yard for the author of the shot, but a sound broke on their cars from 
the road above, and presently the clatter of hoofs and the clamor of swords 
came thundering through the mist. 

v.— THE CONTEST IN THE VILLAGE STREET. 

And in a moment the voice of Sullivan was heard — " Charge — upon the 
' Britishers' — charge them home!'''' 

And the steeds of the American cavalry came thundering on, sweeping 
down the hill with one wild movement, rushing into the very centre of the 
enemy's column, each trooper unhorsing his man, while a thousand fierce 
shouts mingled in chorus, and the infantry advanced with fixed bayo- 
nets, speeding steadily onward until they had driven back their foes with 
the force of their solid charge. 

And along that solitary street of Germantown swelled the din and terror 
of battle, there grappled with the fierce grasp of vengeance and of death the 
columns of contending foemen, there rode the troopers of the opposite 
armies, their swords mingling, their horses meeting breast to breast in the 
shock of this fierce tournament; there shrieked the wounded and dying, 
while above the heads of the combatants waved the white folds of mist, 
mingled with the murky battle smoke. 

Sullivan charged bravely, Wayne came nobly to his rescue, Pulaski 
scattered confusion into the ranks of the enemy, and the Americans had 
been masters of the field were it not for a fresh disaster at Chew's House, 
combined with the mistakes of the various bodies of the Continentals, who 
were unable to discern friend from foe in the density of the fog. 

VL— CHEW'S HOUSE AGAIN. 

Meanwhile the contest thickened around Chew's house ; the division of 
Greene, united with the central body of the American army, were engaged 
with the left wing of the British army, under Kniphausen, Grant, and Grey, 
while Sullivan led forward into the town, a portion of the advance column 
of his division. 

Tradition has brought down to our times a fearful account of the carnage 
and bloodshed of the fight, around Chew's house at this moment, when the 
British army to the south, and the Americans to the north, advanced in the 
terrible charge, under the cover of the mist and gloom. 

It was like fighting in the dark. The Americans advanced column after 



THE ADVENTURE OF WASHINGTON. 51 

column ; they drove back the British columns with a line of bristling 
bayonets, while the fire of the backwoodsmen rattled a death-hail over the 
field ; but it was all in vain ! That gloomy mist hung over their heads, 
concealing their foes from sight, or investing the forms of their friends with 
a doubtful gloom, that caused them to be mistaken for British ; in the 
fierce melle ; all was dim, undefined and indistinct. 

VII.— THE ADVENTURE OF WASHINGTON. 

It was at this moment that a strange resolution came over the mind of 
Washington. All around him was mist and gloom, he saw his men disap- 
pear within the fog, toward Chew's house, but he knew not whether their 
charge met with defeat or victory. He heard the tread of hurrying 
legions, the thunder of the cannon, the rattle of the musquetry broke on his 
ear, mingled with the siirieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying. 
The terrible panorama of a battle field, passed vividly before his eyes, 
but still he knew not tho cause of the impregnability of Chew's house. 

He determined to advance toward the house, and examine its position in 
person. 

He turned to the officers of his staff — " Follow me who will !" he cried, 
and in a moment, his steed of iron grey was careering over the sod, littered 
with ghastly corses, while the air overhead was alive wilh the music of bul- 
lets, and earth beneath was flung against the war steed's flanks by the can- 
non ball. 

Followed by Hamilton, by Pickering, by Marshall, and by Lee, of the 
gallant legion, Washington rode forward, and speeding between the fires of 
the opposing armies, approached the house. 

At every step, a dead man with a livid face turned upward ; little pools 
of blood crimsoning the lawn, torn fragments of attire scattered over the 
sod ; on every side hurrying bodies of the foemen, while terrible and unre- 
mitting, the fire flashing from the windows of Chew's House, flung a lurid 
glare over the batfle-field. 

Washington dashed over the lawn ; he approached the house, and every 
man of his train held his breath. Bullets were whistling over their heads, 
cannon balls playing round their horses' feet, yet their leader kept on his 
way of terror. A single glance at the house, with its vollies of flame flash- 
ing from every window, and he turned to the north to regain the American 
lines, but the fog and smoke gathered round him, and he found his horse 
entangled amid the enclosures of the cattle-pen to the north of the mansion. 

" Leap your horses — " cried Washington to the brave men around him 
— " Leap your horses and save yourselves !" 

And in a moment, amid the mist and gloom his oflicers leaped the north- 
ern enclosure of the cattle-pen, and rode forward to the American line, 
scarcely able to discover their path in the dense gloom that gathered around 



63 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN; 

them. They reached the American lines, and to their horror, discovered 
that Washington was not among their band. He had not leaped the fence 
of the cattle-pen ; with the feeling of a true warrior, he was afraid of injur- 
ing his gallant steed, by this leap in the dark. 

While the officers of the staff were speeding to the American line, Wash- 
ington turned his steed to the south, he determined to re-pass the house, 
" strike to tlie north-east, and then facing the fires of both armies, regain the 
Continental lines. 

He rose proudly in the stirrups, he placed his hand gently on the neck 
of his steed, he glanced proudly around him, and then the noble horse 
sprang forward with a sudden leap, and the mist rising for a moment dis- 
closed the form of Washington, to the vision of the opposing armies. 



^nvt ttic jFoitvtfv. 



THE FALL OF THE BANNER OF THE STARS. 

" What seest thou now, comrade ?" 

" I look from the oriel window^ see a forest of glittering steel, rising in the 
light, with the snow-flakes of wavins; plumes flaunting with the sunbeams! Our 
men advance — the banner of the stars is borne aloft, onward and on it sweeps, like a 
mighty bird ; and now the foemen waver, they recoil — they — " 

" They fly !— they fly!" 

" No — no ! — oh, moment of horror ! — the banner of the stars is lost ! — the flag of 
blood-red hue rises in the light — the foemen advance — I dare not look upon the 
scene " 

" Look again, good comrade — look, I beseech thee — what seest thou now 1" 

" I see a desolated field, strewn with dead carcases and broken arms — the banner 
of the stars is trampled in the dust — all is lost, and yet not all!" — Mss. Revolutio.n 

I.— WASHINGTON IN DANGER. 

The form of the Chieftain rose through the smoke and gloom of battle, 
in all its magnificence of proportion, and majesty of bearing, as speeding 
between two opposing fires — his proud glance surveying the battle-field — he 
retraced his path of death, and rode toward the American array. 

He was now in front of Chew's House, he was passing through the very 
sweep of the fires, belching from every window ; the bullets whistled 
around him ; on every hand was confusion, and darkness, made more 
fearful by tlic glare of musquctry, and the lightning flash of cannon. 

He is now in front of Chew's House ! Another moment and the Man 
of the Army may fall from his steed riddled by a thousand bullets, a single 
moment and his corse may be added to the heaps of dead piled along the 



THE UNKNOWN FORM. 53 

lawn in all the ghastliness of death ; another moment and the Continentals 
may be without a leader, the British without their most determined foe. 

His form is enrapt in mist, he is lost to sight, he again emerges into 
light, he passes the house and sweeps away toward the Continental army. 

He passes the house, and as he speeds onward toward the American 
lines, a proud gleam lights up his eye, and a prouder smile wreaths his de- 
termined lips. " The American army is yet safe, they are in the path to 
victory — " he exclaims, as he rejoins the officers of his staff', witliin the 
American lines — " Had 1 but intelligence of Armstrong in the West — of 
Smallwood and Forman in the East, with one bold effort, we might carry 
' the field !" 

But no intelligence of Smallwood or Forman came — Armstrong's move- 
ments were all unknown — Stephens, who flanked the right wing of Greene, 
was not heard from, nor could any one give information concerning his 
position. 

And as the battle draws to a crisis around Chew's house, as the British 
and Americans are disputing the possession of the lawn now flooded with 
blood, let me for a moment turn aside from the path of regular history, and 
notice some of the legends of the battle field, brought down to our times by 
the hoary survivors of the Revolution. 

11.— THE UNKNOWN FORM. 

Let us survey Chew's house in the midst of the fight. 

It is the centre of a whirpool of flame. 

Above is the mist, spreading its death shroud over the field. Now it is 
darkened into a pall by the battle smoke, and now a vivid cannon flash lays 
bare the awful theatre. 

Slill in the centre you may see Chew's house, still from every window 
flashes the blaze of musquetry, and all around it columns of jet black smoke 
curl slowly upward, their forms clearly defined against the shroud of while 
mist. 

It is a terrible thing to stand in the shadows of the daybreak hour, by the 
bedside of a dying father, and watch that ashy face, rendered more gliastly 
by the rays of a lurid taper — it is a terrible thing to clasp the hand of a sis- 
ter, and feel it grow cold, and colder, until it stifl'ens to ice in your grasp — 
a fearful thing to gather the wife, dearest and most beloved of all, to your 
breast, and learn the fatal truth, that die heart is pulseless, the bosom claj', 
the eyes fixed and glassy. — 

Yes, Death in any shape, in the times of Peace by the fireside, and in 
the Home, is a fearful thing, talk of it as you will. 

And in the hour when Riot howls through the strcels of a wide city, its 
ten thousand faces crimsoned by the glare of a burning church. Death looks 
not only horrible but grotesque. I'or those dead men laid stiflly along the 



.64 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

streets, their cold fiaces tiiriuHl to scarlet by the same glare tliat reveals the 
cross of llie tottei-iiig teinplo, have been murdered by their — brothers. 
Like wild beasts, huiiled and torn by the hounds, they have yielded up their 
lives, the warm blood of their hearts mingling with the filth of the gultiT. 

This indeed is horrible, but Death in the Battle, who shall dare paint its 
pictures ? 

What pencil snatched from the hands of a Devil, shall delineate its colors 
of blood ? 

Look upon Chew's house and behold ii ! 

There — under the cover of the mist, thirty thousand men are hurrying to 
and fro, shooting and stabbing and mcirdering as llicv go ! Look ! The 
lawn is canopied by one vast undulating sheet of flame ! 

Hark ! To the terrible tramp of the horses' hoofs, as they crash on over 
heaps of dead. 

Here, you behold long columns of blue uniformed soldiers ; there dense 
masses of scarlet. Hark ! Yes, listen and hear the horrid howl of 
slaughter, the bubbling groan of death, the low toned pitiful note of pain. 
Pain ? What manner of pain? Why, the pain of arms torn off at the 
shoulder, limbs hacked into pieces by chain shot, eyes darkened forever. 

Not.rauch poetry in this, you say. No. Nothing but truth — truth that 
rises from the depths of a bloody well. 

From those heaps of dying and dead, I beseech you select only one corse, 
and gaze' upon it in silence — Is he dead ? The young man yonder with the 
pale face, the curling black hair, the dark eyes wide open, glaring upon that 
shroud above — is lie dead ? 

Even if he is dead, stay, 0, stay yon wild horse that comes rushing on 
■without a rider; do not let him trample that young face, with his'red hoofs. 

For it may be that the swimming eyes of a sister have looked upon that 
face — perchance some fair girl, beloved of the heart, has kissed those red 
lips — do not let the riderless steed come on ; do not let him trample into 
the sod that face, which has been wet with a .Mother's tears ! 

And yet this face is only one among a thousand, which now pave the bat- 
tle field, crushed by the footsteps of the hurrying soldiers, trampled by the 
horses' hoofs. 

And v\ bile the battle swelled fiercest, while the armies traversed that 
green lawn in the hurry of contest, along the blood stained sward, with 
calm manner and even step, strode an unknown form, passing over the 
field, amid smoke and mist and gloom, while the wounded fell shrieking at 
his feel, and the faces of the dead met his gaze on every side. 

It was the form of an aged man, with grey hairs streaming over his 
shoulders, an aged man with a mild yet fearless countenance, with a tall 
and muscular figure, clad neither in the glaring dress of the ' Britisher.' or the 
hunting shirt of the Continental, but in the plain attire of drab cloth, the 



THE UNKNOWN FORM. 53 

simple co;it, vest with wide hippels, small clolhes and stockings, that mark 
the believers of the Quaker faiih. 

He was a Friend. Wlio he was, or wiiat was his name, whence he 
came, or whither he went, no one could tell, and tradition still remains 
silent. 

But along that field, he was seen gliding amid the heat and glare of bat- 
tle. Did the wounded soldier shriek for a cup of water ? It was his hand 
that brought it from the well, on the verge of Chew's wall. Extended 
along the sward, with their giiastly faces quivering with the spasmodic throe 
of insupportable pain, tlie dying raised themselves piteously on their tremb- 
ling hands, and in broken tones asked for relief, or in the wildness of de- 
lirium spoke of their far oft' homes, whispered a message to their wives or 
little ones, or besought the blessing of their grey haired sires. 

It was the Quaker, the unknown and mysterious Friend, who was seen 
unarmed save with the Faith of God, undefended save by tlie Armour of 
Heaven, kneeling on the sod, whispering words of comfort to the dying, and 
pointing with his uplifted hand to a home beyond the skies, where battle 
nor wrong nor death ever came. 

Around Chew's house and over the lawn he sped on his message of 
mercy. There was fear and terror around him, the earth beneath his mea- 
sured footsteps quivered, and the air was heavy with death, but he trembled 
not, nor quailed, nor turned back from his errand of mercy. 

Now seen in the thickest of the light, the soldiers rushing on their paths 
of blood, started back as they beheld his mild and peaceful figure. Some 
deemed him a thing of air, some thought they beheld a spirit, not one offered 
to molest or harm the Messenger of Peace. 

It was a sight worth all the ages of controversial Divinity to see — this 
plain Quaker going forth with the faith of that Saviour, v.'hose name has 
ever been most foully blasphemed by those who called themselves his 
friends, going forth with the faith of Jesus in his heart, speaking comfort to 
the dying, binding up the gashes of the wounded, or yet again striding 
boldly into the fight and rescuing with his own unarmed hands the prostrate 
soldier from the attack of his maddened foe. 

Blessings on his name, the humble Quaker, for this deed which sanctifies 
humanity, and makes as dream of men of mortal mould raised to the majesty 
of Gods. His name is not written down, his history is all unknown, but 
when the books of the unknown world are bared to the eyes of a 
congregated universe, then will that name shine brighter and lighter with a 
holier gleam, than the name of any Controversial Divine or loud-mouthed 
hireling, that ever disgraced Christianity or blnsphemcd the name of Jesus. 

Ah, meihinks. even amid the carnage of Germantown, I see the face of 
the Redeemer, bending from the battle-mist, and smiling upon the pcacef-' 
Quaker, as he never smiled upon learned priest or mitred prelate. 



66 THE BATTLE OF CERMANTOWN. 



III.— THE BEVEL OF DEATH, 

Within Chew's house tliis \v;is the scene: 

Every room crowiltnl with soUlicrs In their glaring crimson attire, the old 
hall tliroiiged by armed men, all stained with blood and begrimed with battle 
smoke, the stair-way trembling beneath the tread of soldiers beariiiir ammu- 
nilion to the upper rooms, while every board of the floor, every step of the 
stair-case bore its ghastly burden of dying and dead. The air was pestilent 
with the smell of powder, the walls trembled with the shock of battle; thick 
volmiies of smoke rolling from the lower rooms, wound through the doors, 
into the old hall, and up the stairway, enveloping all objects in a pall of 
gloom, that now shifted aside, and again came down upon the forms of tiie 
British soldiers like dark night. 

Let us ascend the stairway. Tread carefully, or your fool will trample 
on the face of that dead soldier; ascend the staircase with a cautious step, 
or you will lose your way in the battle smoke. 

The house trembles to its foundation, one volley of musquetry after 
anollier breaks on your ear, and all around is noise and confusion ; nothing , 
seen but armed men hurrying to and fro, nothing heard but the thunder of 
the fight. 

We gain the top of the stairway — we have mounted over the piles of 
dead — we pass along the entry — we enter the room on the right, facing to- 
ward the lawn. 

A scene of starlling interest opens to our sight. At each window are 
arranged liles of men, who, with faces all blood stained and begrimed, are 
sending their musquet shots along the lawn ; at each window the floor is 
stained with a pool of blood, and the bodies of the dead are dragged away 
by the strong hands of their comrades, who till their places almost as soon 
as they receive their death wound. The walls are rent by cannon balls, 
and lorn by bidlets, and the very air seems ringing with the carnival shouts 
of old Death, rejoicing in the midst of demons. 

Near a window in this room clustered a gallant band of Hritish officers, 
who gave the word to the men, directed the dead to be taken from the lloor, 
or gazed out upon the lawn in the endeavor to pierce the gloom of the 
contest. 

Some were young and handsome officers, others were veterans who had 
mowed their way through man)' a fight, and all were begrimed wiih the 
blood and smoke of battle. Their gaudy coats were rent, the epaulette was 
torn frojn one shoulder by the bullet, the plume from the helm of another, 
and a third fell in his comrades' arms, as he received the ball in his heart. 

While they stood gazing from the window, a singular incident occurred. 

A young otlicer, standing in the midst of his comrades, felt something 
drop from the ceiling, and trickle down his cheek. 



THE REVEL OF DEATH. 57 

The fight was fierce and bloody in the attic overhead. They could liear 
the cannon balls tearing shingles from the roof— they could hear the low, 
deep groans of the dying. 

Another drop fell from the ceiling — another and another. ! 

"It is blood !" cried his comrades, and a laugh went round the group. 
Drop after drop fell from the ceiling; and in a moment a tliiii liquid 
stream came trickling down, and pattered upon the blood-stained floor. 

The young ofiicer reached forth his hand, he held it extended beneath the 
falling stream : he applied it to his lips. 

" Not blood, but wine!" he shouted. " Good old Madeira wine !" 
The group gathered round the young oflicer in wonder. It was wine^ 
good old wine — that was dripping from the ceiling. In a few moments the 
young ofiicer, rushing through the gloom and confusion of the stairway, had 
ransacked the attic, and discovered under the eaves of the roof, between the 
rafters and the floor, some three dozen bottles of old Madeira wine, placed 
there for safe-keeping some score of years before the battle. . These bottles 
were soon drawn from their resting-place, and the eyes of the group in the 
room below were presently astonished by the vision of the ancient bottles, 
all hung with cobwebs, their sealed corks covered with dust. 

In a moment the necks were struck ofl" some half-dozen bottles, and while 
the fire poured from the window along the lawn, while cries and shrieks, 
and groans, broke on the air; while the smoke came rolling in the window, 
now in folds of midnight blackness, and now turned to lurid red by the 
glare of cannon ; while the terror and gloom of battle arose around them, 
the group of ofiicers poured the wine in an ancient goblet, discovered in a 
closet of the mansion, — they filled it brimming full with wine, and drank a 
royal health to the good King George ! 

They drank and drank again, until their eyes sparkled, and their lips 
grew wild with loyal words, and their thirst for blood — the blood of the 
rebels — was excited to madness. Again and again were the soldiers shot 
down at the window, again were their places filled, and once more the gob- 
let went round from lip to lip, and the old wine was poured forth like water, 
in healths to the good King George ! 

And as they drank, one by one, the soldiers were swept away from the 
windows, until at the last the ofiicers stood exposed to the blaze of the 
American fire, (lashing from the green lawn. 

" Health to King George — Death to the rebels !" 

The shout arose from the lips of a grey-haired veteran, and he fell to the 
floor, a mangled corse. The arm that raised the goblet was shattered at 
the elbow by one musket ball, as another penetrated his brain. 

The goblet was seized by another hand, and the revel grew loud and 
wild. The sparkling wine was poured forth like water, healths were drank, 
hurrahs were shouted, and — another oflicer measured his length on the floor. 
He had received liis ball of death. 



58 TIIK BATTLE OF OERMANTOVVN. 

There was something of liulicrous horror in the scene. 

Those sounds of revel and bacchanalian nproar, breakinfr on tlie air, amid 
the intervals — the sliorl ;irul ti'riilile intervals of battle — those fnceff flushed 
by wine, and agitalfd by all llu; madness of the niQiiient, turned from one 
side to another, every lip wearing a gliastly smile, every eye glaring from 
its socket, while every voice echoed the drunken shout and the fierce 
hurrah. 

Anolhcr odiccr fell wounded, and another, and yet another. The young 
oflicer who h:ul first discovered the wine alone remained. 

Even ill this moment of horror, we cannot turn our eyes away, from his 
young countenance, with its hazel eyes and thickly clustered hair I 

He glanceil round upon his wounded and ilying comrades, he looked 
vacantly in the faces of the dead, he gazed upon the terror and confusioii 
of the scene, and then he seized the goblet, fdled it brimming-fuU with wine, 
and raised it to his lips. 

His lip touched the edge of the goblet, his face was reflected in the 
quivering wavelets of the wine, his eyes rolled wildly to and fro, and then 
a musket shot pealed through the window. The oflicer glared around with 
a maddened glance, and then the warm blood, spouting from the wound 
between his eyebrows, fell drop by drop into the goblet, and mingled with 
the wavelets of the ruby wine. 

And then there was a wild shout; a heavy bodv top]ilcd to the floor; 
and the young soldier with a curse on his lips went drunken to his tiod. 

Let us for a moment notice the movements of the divisions of Washing- 
ton's army, and then return to the principal battle ground at Chew's house. 

The movements of the divisions of Smallwood and I'orman are, to this 
day, enveloped in mystery. They came in view of the enemy, but the 
density of the mist, prevented them from cflectually engaging with the 
British. 

Armstrong came marching down the Manalawny road, until the quiet 
Wissahikon dawned on the eyes of his men ; but after this moment, his 
march is also wrapt in mystery. — Some reports state that he actually 
engaged with the Hessian division of the enemy, others state that the alarm 
of the .\merican retreating from Chew's liousc reached his ear, as the van- 
guard of his command entered Germantown, near the market-house, and 
commenced tiring upon the chasseurs w ho flanked the lett wing of the 
15rilish arjny. 

However this may be, yet tradition has brought down to our limes a ter- 
rible legend connected with the retreat of Armstrong's division. The 
theatre of this legend was the quiet Wissahikon, and this is the story of 
ancient tr.idition. 



THE WISSAHIKON. 60 



IV.— THE WISSAHIKON. 



It is a "^ocm of ovcrlasting beauty — a dream of magnificence — the 
■worid-liiiklen, woo(l-enil)owered Wissahikon. Its pure waters break for- 
ever ill ripples of silver around tlie base of colossal rocks, or sweep mur- 
niuringly on, over beds of pebbled Hints, or spread into calm and mirror- 
like lakes, with shores of verdure, surmounted by green hills, rolling away 
in waves of forest trees, or spreading qniedy in the fierce light of the sum- 
mer sun, witli the tired cattle grouped beneath the lofty oaks. 

It is a poem of beauty — where the breeze mourns its anthem through the 
tall ])iM<'s ; where the silver waters send up their voices of joy ; where 
calniiu'ss, and quiet, and intense solitude^wc the soul, and fill the heart 
with bright thoughts and golden dreams, woven in the luxury of the sum- 
mer hour. 

From the moment your eyes first drink in the gladness of its waters, as 
they pour into the Schuylkill, seven miles from Philadelphia, until you be- 
hold it winding its thread of silver along the meadows of AVhitemarsh, m£«iy 
miles above, it is all beauty, all dream, all magnificence. 

It breaks on your eye, pouring into the Schuylkill, a calrrj lake, with an 
ancient and picturesque mill* in the foreground. A calm lake, buried in 
the depths of lowering steeps, that rise almost perpendicularly on either 
side, casting a shadow of gloom over the water, while every steep is green 
with brushwood, every rocky cleft magnificent with the towering oak, the 
sombre pine, or the leafy chesnut. 

This glen is passed ; then you boliold hilly shores, sloping away to the 
south in pleasant undulations, while on the north arise frowning steeps. 
Then your mind is awed by tremendous hills on either side, creating one 
immense solitude ; rugged steeps — all precipice and perpendicular rock — 
covered and crowded with giant pines, and then calm and rippleless lakes, 
shadowy glens, deep ravines and twilight dells of strange and dreamy 
beauty. 

There is, in sooth, a stamp of strange and dreamy beauty impressed 
upon every ripple of the Wissahikon, every grassy bank extending greenly 
along its waters, on every forest-tree towering beside its shores. 

On the calm summer's day, when the sun is declining in the west, you 
may look from the height of some grey, rugged steep, down upon the depths 
of the world-hidden waters. Wild legends wander across your fancy as 
you gaze; every scene around you seems but the fitting location for a wild 
and dreamy tradition, every rock bears its old time story, every nook of the 
wild wood has its tale of the ancient days. The waters, deep, calm, and 
well-like, buried amidst overhanging hills, have a strange and mysterious 

* Formerly Vanduring's, now Robinson's mill. 



60 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

clearness. The long shadows of tlic liills, brokmi by gulden bells of sun- 
shine, flollio the waters in sable ami gold, ia glitter and ia shadow. All 
around is quiet and still ; silence sccnis to have assumed a positive existence 
amid these vallics of romance and of dreams. 

It was along ihe borders of this quiet stream, that an ancient fabric arose, 
toweriu"' through the verdure of the trees, with its tottering chimneys 
enveloped in folds of mist. The walls were severed by many a lissure, the 
windows were crumbling to decay ; the halls of the ancient mansion were 
silent as the tomb. 

It was wearing toward noon, when a body of soldiers, wearing the blue 
hunting-shirt and fur cap with bucktail plume, came rushing from the woods 
nn the opposite side of llie rivulet, came rushing through the waters of the 
lonely stream, and hurried with hasty steps towaril the deserted house. 

In a moment they had entered its tottering doorway, and disappeared 
Avithin its aged walls. Another instant, and a body of soldiers broke from 
the woods on the opposite side of the stream, clad in the Hessian costume, 
with ponderous bearskin caps, heavy accroutemcnts, and massive muskets. 

They crossed the stream, and rusiied into the house in pursuit of the 
flying continentals. They searched the rooms on the lirst lloor ; they hur- 
ried along the tottering timbers, but not a single Continental was to be seen. 
They ascended the crumbling stairway with loud shouts and boisterous 
oaths, and reached the rooms of the second story. Every door was (lung 
hastily aside, every closet was broken open, the boards were even torn from 
the floor, every nook was searched, every corner ransacked, and yet no 
vision of a blue shirted backwoodsman, met the eye of the eager Hessians. 

All was silent as death. 

Their own footfalls were returned in a thousand eclioes, their own shouts 
alone disturbed the silence of the house, but no sound or sight, rould be ob- 
tained of the fleeing Continentals. Every room was now searched, save 
the garret, and the Hessians, some twenty men, able bodied and stout, were 
about rushing up the stairway of the attic in pursuit of the ten Continental 
soldiers, when the attention of one of their number was arrested by a sin- 
gular spectacle. 

The Hessian soldier beheld through a crumbling window frame, the 
figure of a woman, standing on the height of an abrupt steej), overhanging 
the opposite side of the stream. She waved her hands to the soldier, 
shouted and waved her hands again. He heeded her not, but rushed up the 
stairway after his companions. 

The sliout of that unknown woman was the warning of death. 

"While the Hessians were busily engaged in searching the attic, while 
their shouts and execrations awoke the echoes of the roof, while they were 
thrusting sword and bayimel into the dark corners of the apartment, that 
shout of the woman on the rock, arose, echoing over the stream again and 
again. 



THE CRISIS OF THE FIOIIT. 6C 

The Hessians rushed to the wimlovv, thi^y smUleiily rcineniheretl that 
tliey liad nci^lecled to sean'.li the cellar, and loolvinir far below, they beheld 
thin wreaths of light blue smolce, winding upward IVom the cellar window. 

A fearful suspicion crept over the minds of the soldiers. 

They rushed from the attic, iu a moment they might reacli the lower 
floor and escape. With that feeling of unimaginable terror creeping round 
each heart and paling every face, they rushed tremblingly on, they gained 
the second floor, their footsteps already resounded along the stairway when 
the boards trembled beneath their feet, a horrid combination of sounds assailed 
their ears, and the walls rocked to and fro like a frantic bacchanal. 

Another moment! And along that green wood rang a fearful sound, 
louder and more terrible than thunder, shaking the very rocks with an earth- 
quake motion, while the fragments of the ancient fabric arose blackening 
into the lieaveus, mingled with human bodies torn and scattered into innu- 
merable pieces, and the air was tilled with a dense smoke, tliat hung over 
the forest, in one thick and blackening pall. 

In a few moments the scene was clear, but the ancient house had disap- 
peared as if by magic, while the shouts of the Continental soldiers were 
heard in the woods, far beyond the scene. 

The house had been used by the British as a temporary depot of powder. 
When the American Continentals rushed into the cellar, they beheld the 
kegs standing iu one corner, they piled up combustible matter in its vicinity 
and then inade their escape from the house by a subterranean passage 
known only to themselves. They emerged into open air some hundred 
yards beyond, and beheld the result of this signal vengeance on their foes. 

v.— THE CRISIS OF THE FIGHT. 

Again we return to the field of Chew's House. 

Wasliington determined to make one last and desperate efi'ort. Tiie 
Corps de Reserve under Stirling, and Maxwell, and Nash, came thundering 
along the field ; each sword unsheathed, every bayonet firm ; every man 
eager and ready for the encounter. 

It was now near nine o'clock in the morning. — The enemy still retained 
Chew's house. The division under Greene, the main botiy commanded 
by Wayne, by Sullivan and Conway, composed the American force engaged 
iu acuial contest. — 'I'o this force was now added the Corps de Reserve, 
under Lord Stirling, Generals Maxwell and Nash. 

The British force, under command of General Howe, who had arrived 
on the field soon after the onslaught at Chew's House, were led to battle by 
Kniphausen, Agnew, Grant, and Grey, who now rode from troop to troop, 
from rank to raidi, hurrying the men around toward the main point of the fiiuht. 

There was a pause in the horror of the battle. 

The Americans rested on their arms, the troopers reined in their steeds 

6 



02 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

in siijlit of Chew's Iloiisn, and amiil llie liodios of the dead. Tlie Conli- 
neiilid ranks were terribly lliimied by llie dusolaling lire from ihe liouse ; 
every lile was diaiinislied, and in some inslanocs, whole companies were 
swept away. 

TIk! IJriiish were fresh in vigor, and alily armed and equipped. They 
impaliiMUly rushed forward, eai;er to sleep liieir arms in American blood. 

And amid the folds of mist and batile-smokc — while the whole field re- 
sembled some fearful phantasmafjoria of fancy, with its shadowy liirurcs flit- 
tiiis; to and fro, while the echo of the cannon, the rattle of the niusquetry, 
and llie shrieks of the wounded yet rung on the soldiers' ears — they eagerly 
awaited the signal for the re commencement of the fight. 

'I'he signal rang along the lines ! In an instant the cannons opened their 
fire on Chew's house, tiie troopers came thundering on in their hurricane 
charge. All around were charging legions, armed bodies of men hurrying 
toward the house, heaps of the wounded strown over the sod. That terri- 
ble cry which had for three long hours gone shrieking up to heaven from 
that lawn, now rose above the luiinilt of bailie — the quick piercing cry of 
the strong man, smitten suddenly down by his death-wound. 

The American soldiers fought like men who fight for everything that man 
needs for sustenance, or holds dear in honor, or sacred in religion. Step by 
step the veteran continentals drove the Britishers over the (ield, trampling 
down the faces of their dead comrades in the action ; step by step were 
they driven back in their turn, musquets were clubbed in the madness of the 
strife, and the cry for "quarter," fell on deafened ears. 

Then it was that the chieftains of the American host displayed actrs of 
superhuman courage ! 

In the thickest of tlie fight, where swords flashed most vivedly, where 
death-groans shrieked most terribly upon die air, where the steeds of con- 
tending squadrons rushed madly against each other in the wild encounter of 
the charge, there might you see mad Anthony Wayne ; his imposing form 
towering over the heads of the combatants, his eye blazing with excitement, 
and his sword, all red with blood, rising and falling like a mighty hammer 
in the hands of a giant blacksmith. 

How gallandy the warrior-drover rides ! Mounted on his gallant war- 
steed, he comes once more to battle, his sword gleaming like a meteor, 
around his head. On and on, without fear, without a thought save his coun- 
try's honor and the vengeance of Paoli — on and on he rides, and as he 
speeds, his shout rings out clear and lustily upon the air — 

"On, comrades, on — and licmcmbcr I'aoli.'" 

"Foruartf, linitlein,furwarls .'"' 

11a! The gallant Pulaski ! How like a king he rides at the head of his 
iron band, liow firmly he sits in his stirrups, how gallantly he beckons his 
men onward, how like a sunbeam playing on glittering ice, his sword Hits to 
and fro, along the darkened air ! 



THE CRISIS OF THE FIGHT. 63 

Like one solid battle-bolt, his gallant band speed onward, carrying terror 
and eoafiision into the very centre of Kniphaiisen's columns, leaving a line 
of dead men in tTieir rear, and driving the disconililled Hessians beibre them, 
while the well-known battle-shout of Pulaski halloos tiiese war-houails on 
to the slaughter — 

" Forwarls — brudern — forwarts !" 

And there he rides, known to all the men as their commander, seen by"- 
every eye in the interval of the batde-smoke, hailed by a thousand voices 
— Washington ! 

Hark ! IIow the cheer of his deep-toned voice swells through the confu- 
sion of battle ! 

A calm and mild-faced man, leading on a column of Continentals, rides 
up to his side, and is pusliiiig forward into the terror of the mist-hidden 
melee, when the voice of Washington riu^s in Ins ear — 

«' Greene — why is Stephens not here >. Why does he delay his divi- 
sion ?" 

" General, we have no intelligence of his movements. Me has not yet 
appeared upon the field — " 

Washington's lip quivered. A world seemed pent up in his heart, and 
for once in his entire life, his agitation was visible and apparent. 

lie raised his clenched hand on high, and as Napoleon cursed Grouchy 
at Waterloo, in after times, so Washington at Gerniantown cursed Stephens, 
from his very heart of iiearts. The glittering game of battle was being 
played around him. Stephens alone was wanting to strike terror into the 
ranks of tlie enemy around Chew's house, the crisis had come — and Ste- 
phens was not there, one of the most important divisions of the army was 
powerless. 

Anil now the gallant Stirling, the brave Nash, and tlie laurelled Maxwell, 
came riding on, at the head of the corps de reserve, every man with his 
sword and bayonet, yet unstained with blood, eager to join the current of the 
fight. 

Nash — the brave General of the North Carolina Division, was rushing 
into the midst of the melei; with his men, leading them on to deeds of cour- 
age and renown, when he received his death-wound, and fell insensible in 
the arms of one of his aids-de-camp. 

The mist gathering thicker and denser over the battle field, caused a ter- 
rible mistake on the part of the American divisions. Tliey cliarged against 
their own friends, shot down their own comrades, and even bayonetted the 
very soldiers who had shared their mess, ere they discovered the fatal mis- 
take. The mist and baltle-smoke rendered all objects dim and indistinct-^ 
the event of this battle will show, that it was no vain fancy of the author, 
which induced him to name this mist of Gerniantown — the Shroud of 
Death. It proved a shroud of death, in good sooth, for hundreds who laid 
down their lives on the sod of the battle field. 



84 T[IK r.ATTLE OI' (.'ERMANTOVVN. 

Tho Efallaiit Colonel i\I:itilie\vs, at tlie head of a Virginia regiment, pene- 
trated into tin', centra of the town, driving tho British before him at pleasure, 
and after this },'lorioiis eflbrt, he was returning to the Anifiriean lines with 
some three hundred prisoners, when he enconnlered a body of troops in the 
mist, whom he supposed to be Continentals. lie rode unfearingly into their 
midst, and found iiinisclf a prisoner in tlic heart of the British army ! The 
mist had foiled his gallant elfort ; his prisoners were recaptured, himself and 
his men were captives to the fortune of war. 

VI.— "ri;treat." 

Now it was that Washington beheld his soldiers shrink and give way on 
every side ! On every hand they began to waver, from line to line, from 
column to cohunn ran terrible rumors of the approach of Cornwallis, with 
areiiiforceinent of grenadiers; the American soldiers were struck with despair. 
They had fought while there was hope, they had paved their way to vic- 
tory with heaps of dead, they had fought against superior discipline, superior 
force, superior fortune, but tho mist that overhung the battle field, blasted all 
their hopes, and along the American columns rang one word, that struck 
like a knell of death on the heart of Washington — '■'relreaC — "rktreat !" 

It was all in vain that the American chieftain threw himself in the way 
of the retreating ranks and besought them to stand firm — for the sake of 
their honor, for the sake of their country, for the sake of tlicir God. 

It was all in vain ! In vain was it that I'ulasUi threw his troopers in the 
path chosen by the fugitives ; in vain did ho wave his sword on high, and 
beseech them in his broken dialect, with a llushed cheek and a maddening 
eye, implore tliein to turn and face the well-nigh conquered foe ! It was iu 
vain ! 

In vain did I\Iad Anthony Wayne, the hero of Pennsylvania, ride from 
rank to rank, and with his towering form raised to its full height, hold his 
hand aloft, and in the Ainiiliar tones of brotherly intimacy, beckon the sol- 
diers once again to the field of battle. 

All was in vain ! 

And while Chew's house still belched forth its fires of death, while all 
througli (Jermantown were marching men, hot-foot from Philadelphia, while 
'over the fatal lawn rushed hurried bands of the Continentals, seeking for 
their comrades among the dead, Washington gazed to the north and beheld 
the columns of Continentals, their array all thinned and scattered, their num- 
bers diminished, taking their way along the northern road, calmly it is true, 
and in remarkable order, but siill in the order of a retreat, though the enemy 
showed no disposition to annoy or pursue them. 

And while his heart swelled to bursting, and his lip was pressed between 
his teeth in anguish, Washington bowed his head to the mane of his gallant 
"grey" and veiled his face in iiis hands, and then his muscular chest throb- 
bed as though a tempest were pent up within its confmos. 



"RETREAT." 65 

In a moment ne raised his face. All was calm and immoveable, all 
traces of emotion had passed away from the stern and commanding features, 
like the waves rolling from the rock. 

He whispered a few brief words to his aids-de-camp, and then raising his 
form proudly in the stirrups, he rode along the Continental columns, while 
•with a confused and half-suppressed murmuring sound, the Ketreat of 
Germantown commenced. 



^iavt tin iFiftlu 



THE LAST SHOT OF THE BATTLE. 

" Look forth upon the scene of fight, r.omrade." 

" The nmori is up in tlic heavens — her beams jrlimmer on the cold faces of llic dead 
Over dead carcase and over fallen banner, in the midst of the lawn, arises one fell 
and i^hasily lorni, lowering in the moonbeams — " 

" The form, comrade ?" 

" Ii is the I'ortii ol Death, brooding and chuckling over the carnage of the field ; he 
shakes his arms of bone aloft, his skeleton hands wave in the moonlight, he holds 

HIGH FESTIVAL OVER THE EODIi;s OF THE DEAD." MsS. OF THE REVOLUTION. 

I.— THE SOLDIER AND UIS BURDEN. 

A PAUSE in the din of battle ! 

The denizens of Mount Airy and Chesnut Hill came crowding to their 
doors and windows ; the hilly street was occupied by anxious groups of 
people, who conversed in low and whispered tones, with hurried gestures 
and looks of surprise and fear. Yonder group who stand clustered in the 
roadside ! 

A grey haired man with his ear inclined intently toward Germantown, 
his hands outspread, and his trembling form bent with age. The maiden, 
fair cheeked, red lipped, and blooming, clad in the peasant costume, the 
tight boddice, the liiisey skirt, the light 'kerchief thrown over the bosom. 
Her ear is also inclined toward Germantown, and her small hands are in- 
voluntarily crossed over her bosom, that heaves and throbs into view. 

The matron, calm, self possessed, and placid, little children clinging to 
the skirt of her dress, her wifely cap flung carelessly on her head, with 
hair slightly touched with grey, while the sleeping babe nestles in her 
bosom. 

The boy, with the light flaxen hair, the ruddy cheeks, the merry blue 
eye ! He stands silent and motionless — he also listens ! 



ee Tin; dattli-: of okrmantovvn. 

You slniul upon tlie lieiglit of Mount Airy, il is wearing towards noon, 
yet gaze around you. 

Above tlie mist is risin£r. Here and there an occasional sun jleam lishts 
tlie rollinii ciouils of mist, liut the iitmos[)liere wears a dull leaden hue, and 
tiie vast horizon a look ol' soleiuuily and glonm. 

Ucnealli and around sweep field and plain, buckwheat field, and sombre 
■woods, luxuriant orchards and fertile vallies, all seen in the intervals of the 
while cohiuiiis of lire uprisinfr mist. 

The group clustered aloni^ the roadside of Mount Airy arc still and silent. 
Each heart is full, every ear absorbed in the eflbrt of catching the slightest 
soimd from Germantown. 

There is a strange silence upon the air. A moment ago, and far ofT 
shouts broke on the car, mingled with the thunder of cannon and the 
shrieks of musquetry, the earth seemed to tremble, and far around the wide 
horizon was agitated by a tliousaiid echoes. 

Now the scene is still as midnight. Not a sound, not a shout, not a dis- 
tant hurrah. The anxiety of the group upon the hill becomes absorbing 
and painful. Looks of wonder at the sudden pause in the batdc, flit from 
face to face, and then low whispers are heard, and then comes another mo- 
ment of fearful suspense. 

It is followed by a wild rushing sound to the south, like the shrieks of 
the ocean waves, as they fill the hold of the foundering ship, while it sinks 
far in the loneliness of the seas. 

Then a pause, and again that unknown sound, ami then the tratnp of ten 
thousand footsteps, mingled with a wild and indistinct murmur. — Tramp, 
tramp, tramp, the air is lllled witli the sound, and then distinct voices break 
upon the air, and the clatter of arms is borne on the breeze. 

The boy turns to his mother, and asks her who has gained the day? 
Every heart feels vividly that the battle is now over, that the account of 
blood is near its close, that the appeal to the God of battles has been made. 

The mother turns her tearful eyes to the south — she cannot answer the 
question. The old man, awaking from a reverie, turns suddenly to the 
niaidrn, and clasps her arm with his trembling hands. His lips move, hut 
Ids tongue is unable to syllable a sound. His suspense is fearful. He 
flings a trembling hand southward, and speaks his question with the gesture 
of age. 

The battle, the hatile, how goes the battle ? 

And as he makes the gesture, the figure of a soldier is seen rusliing from 
the mist in the valley below, he conies speeding round the bend of the road, 
he ascends the hill, but his steps totter, and he staggers to and fro like a 
drunken man. 

He bears a burden on his shoulders — is it the plunder of the fight, is it 
spoil gathered from the ranks of the dead ? 

No — no. He bears an aged man on his shoulders, he grasps the aged 



THE SOLDIER AND IIIS BURDEN. 67 

form vvilh liis trembling arms, and with an unsieaJy step nears the group 
on the hill top. 

The okl man's grey hairs are waving in the breeze, and his extended 
hand grasps a brokea bayonet, which he raises on high with a maniac 
gesture. 

The soldier and the veteran he bears upon his shoulders, are clad in the 
blue hunting shirt, torn and tattered and stained witli blood, it is true, but 
still you can recognize the uniform of the Revolution. 

The tottering soldier nears the group, he lays the aged veteran down by 
the roadside, and then looks around with a gliastly face and a rolling eye. 
There is blood dripping from his attire, his face is begrimed with powder, 
and spotted wilh crimson drops. He glances wildly around, and then 
kneeling on the sod lie takes the hands of the aged man in his own, and 
raises liis head upon his knee. 

The battle, the batde, how goes the battle ? 

The group cluster round as they shriek the question. 

The young Continental makes no reply, but gazing upon the face of the 
dying veteran, wipes the beaded drops of blood from his forehead. 

"Comrade," shrieks the veteran, "raise me on my feet, and wipe the 
blood from my eyes. I would see him once again !" 

He is raised upon his feet, the blood is wiped from his eyes. 

" I see — I see — it is he — it is Washington ! Yonder — yonder — I see 
his sword — and Antony Wayne, — raise me higher, comrade, — all is getting 
dark — I would see — Mad Antony !" 

Did you ever see a picture that made your heart throb, and your eyes 
grow blind with tears ? 

Here is one. 

The roadside, the group clustered in front of Allen's house, which rises 
massive and solenui in the background. The young soldier, all weak and 
trembling from loss of blood, raising the grey haired veteran in his arms, 
placing his face toward Germantown, while the wrinkled features light up 
with a sudden gleam, and waving his broken bayonet before his eyes, he 
looks toward the scene of the late fight. 

The bystanders, spectators of this scene. The matron gazinn- anxio\isly 
upon the old man's face, her eyes swimming in tears, the ruddy cheeked 
boy holding one hand of the dying veteran, the youthful maiden, all blossom 
and innocence, staiiding slightly apart, with the ancient man in peasant's 
attire, gazing vacantly around as he grasps her arm. 

"Lift me, coinrade — higher, higher — I see liiui — I see Mad Antony! 
Wipe the blood from my eyes, comrade, for it darkens my sight — it is dark, 
it is dark !" 

And the young soldier held in bis arms a lifeless corse. The old veteran 
was dead, lie had fouglit his last light, fired his last shot, shouted the 



68 THE BATTLE OF GERIWANTOWN. 

name of Mad Antony for the last time, ;iiul yet liia witiiered hand clenched, 
with the tightness of death, the broken bayonet. 

The battle, the battle, how goes the battle ? 

As the thrilliiif; question again rung iu liis ears, the young Continental 
turned to the group, smiled ghastily and then flung iiis wounded arm to the 
south. 

" JmsI .'" he siirieked, and rushed on his way like one bereft of his 
senses. He had not gone ten steps, when he bit the dust of the roadside, 
and lay exlemled in the face of day a lifeless corse. 

The eyes of the group were now fixed upon the valley below. 

11— now THE LEGIONS CAME HACK FROM THE IIATTLE. 

Tramp, tramp, echoed tlie sound of hoofs, and then a steed, caparisoned 
in battle array, came sweeping up the hill, with his wounded rider hanging 
helpless and faint by the saddle-bow. — Then came another steed, speeding 
up the iiill, with bloodshot eye and quivering nostril, while his rider fell 
dying to the earth, shouting his wild hurrah as he fell. 

Then came baggage wagons, then bodies of flying troops in continental 
attire, turned to the bend of the road in the valley below, and like a llash the 
hillsiile of iMount Airy was all alive with disordered masses of armed men, 
rushing onward with hurried steps and broken arms. 

Another moment! The whole array of the continental army comes 
sweeping round die bend of the road, tile after file, rank after rank, and 
now, a column breaks into sight. 

Alone the whole column, no vision meets the eyes of the group, but the 
spectacle of broken arms, tarnished array, men wearied with toil and thirst, 
fainting with wounds, and tottering with the loss of blood. 

On and on, along the ascent of the hill they rush, some looking hastily 
around with their pallid faces stained with blood, some holding their shat- 
tered arms high overhead, others aiding thoir wounded comrades as they 
hurry on in the current of the retreat, whde waving in the air, the blue 
banner of the continental host, with its array of thirteen stars, droops 
heavily from the fla-istatt", as its torn folds come sweeping into light. 

And from lile to iilc, with a wild movement and a reckless air, rode a tall 
and muscular soldier, clad in the uniform of a general olBcer, his sword 
waving aloft, and his voice heard above the hurry and confusion of the 
retreat — 

'•'I'urn. comrades, turn, and face the iirilisher — turn, and the day is ours !" 

Mad Anthony cried in vain ! The panic had gone like a lightning flash 
through the army, and every man hurried on, without a thought, save the 
thought of retreat; without a motion, save the escape from the fatal field 
of Chew's House. 

Then came Pulaski and his veterans, their costumes of white ei^nding 
along the road, in glaring relief against the background of blue-shirlf d coa- 



CAPTAIN LEE. 69 

tinentals ; then came the cohimns of Sullivan, the division of Greene, and 
tiien liuddled together in a confused crowd, came the disordered bands of 
the army, vi-ho had broken their ranks, and were marching beside the bag- 
gage wains loaded to the very sides with wounded and dying. 

It was a sad and ghastly spectacle to see that train of death-cars, rolling 
heavily on, with the carcases of the wounded hanging over their sides, with 
broken aims and limbs protruding from their confines, with pallid faces up- 
turned to the sky, while amid the hurry and motion of the retreat, piteous 
moans, fierce cries, and convulsive death-siirieks broke terribly on the air. 

Yon gallant ofTiccr leaning from his steed, yon gallant officer, with the 
bared forehead, the disordered dress, the ruffle spotted with blood, the coat 
torn by sword thrusts, and dripping with the crimson current flowing from 
the heart, while an aid-de-canip riditig by his side supports his fainting form 
on his steed, urging the noble animal forward in tiie path of the retreat. 

It is the brave General Nash. He has fouglil his last fight, led his gallant 
North Carolinians on to the field for the last time, his heart is fluttering 
with the trembling pulsation of death, and his eyes swimming in the dim- 
ness of coming dissolution. 

In the rear, casting fierce glances toward Germanlown, rides the tall form 
of Washington, with Pickering and Hamilton and Marshall, clustering round 
their chieftain, while the sound of the retreating legions is heard far in the 
distance, along the heights of Chesnut Hill. 

Washington reaches the summit of Mount Airy, he beholds his gallant 
though unfortunate army sweeping far ahead, he reins his steed for a mo- 
ment on the height of the mount, and looks toward the field of German- 
town ! 

One long look toward the scene of the hard fought light, one quick and 
fearful memory of the unburied dead, one half-smothered exclamation of 
anguish, and the chieftain's steed springs forward, and thus progresses the 
retreat of Germantown. 

In the town the scene is wild and varied. The mist has not yet arisen, 
the startled inhabitants have not crept from their places of concealment, and 
through the village ride scattered bands and regiments of the British army. 
Here a parly of gaudily-clad German troopers of Walbeck break on your 
eye, yonder the solemn and ponderous Hessian in his heavy accoutrements 
crosses your path, here a company of plaid-kilted Highlanders came march- 
ing on, with claymore and bagpipe, and yonder, far in the distance sweep 
the troopers of Anspack, in their costume of midnight darkness, relieved by 
ornaments of gold, with the skull and cross-bones engraven on each sable cap. 

III.— CAPTAIN LEE. 

In the centre of the village extended a level piece of ground, surrounded 
by dwelling houses, stretching from the eastern side of the road, with the 
markgt-house, a massive and picturesque structure, arising on one side, 

7 



70 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

wliile llie CJennan Reformed Church, with its venerable front and steeple, 
arose on the other. 

The gallant Captain I-ee, of the Parlizan Rangers, had penetrated thus 
far into the town, in common with many other companies of the army, hut 
80011 all others retreated, and he was left alone in the heart of the British 
army, while the continentals were retreating over Mount Airy and Chesnut 
Hill. 

Lee had pursued a Hanoverian troop as far as the market house, when 
he suddenlv perceived the red-coated soldiers of Cornwaliis breaking from 
the gloom of the mist on the south, while a body of troopers came rushing 
from the school house lane on one side, and another corps came thundering 
from the church lane on the opposite side. 

Lee was surrounded. The sable-coaled troopers whom he had been pur- 
suing, now turned on their pursuers, and escape seenied impossible. The 
brave Partizan turned to his men. Each swarthj' face gleamed with 
delight — each sunburnt hand flung aloft the battle-dented sword. The con- 
fusion and havoc of the day had left the Partizan but forty troopers, but 
every manly form was marked by wide shoulders, musridar chest, and lofty 
bearing, and their uniform of green, their caps of fur, with bucktail plume, 
gave a striking and eftective appearance to the band. 

" Comrades, now for a chase I" shouted Lee, glancing gaily over his men. 
" Let us give iliese scare-crow hirelings a chase ! Up the Germantown 
road, advance, boys — forward I" 

And »s they galloped along the Germantown road, riding gallantly four 
abreast, in all a warrior's port and pride, the Hanoverians, now two hundred 
strong, came thundering in their rear, each dark-coated trooper leaning over 
the neck of his steed, with sword upraised, and with tierce battle-shout 
echoing from lip to lip. 

Only twenty paces lay between the Rangers and their foes. The mo- 
notonous sound of the pattering hoof, the clank of the scabbard against the 
soldier's booted leg, the deep, hard breathing of the horses, urged by boot 
and spur to their utmost speed, the fierce looks of the Hanoverians, their 
bending figures, their dress of deep black, with relief of gold, the ponder- 
ous caps, ornamented with the fearful insignia of skull and cross-bones, the 
Rangers sweeping gallantly in front, square and compact in their solid 
column, each manly form in costume of green and gold, disclosed in the light, 
in all its muscular ability and imposing proportions, as they moved forward 
with the same quick impulse, all combined, form a scene of strange and 
varying interest, peculiar to those times of lievolulionary peril and blood- 
shed. 

The chase became exciting. The advance company of sable-coated 
troopers gained on Lee's gallant band at every step, and at every step they 
left their comrades further in the rear. 

Lee's men spurred their steeds merrily forward, ringing their boisterous 



SUNSET UPON THE BATTLE FIELD. 71 

shouts tauntingly upon the air, while their exasperated foes replied with 
curses and execrations. 

And all along through the streets of Gerinantown lay tiie scene of this 
exciting chase, the clatter of the horses' lioofs awake the echoes of the an 
cienthouses, bringing the frightened denizens suddenly to the doors and win- 
dows, and the pursuers and pursued began to near the hill of the Meiinon- 
ist graveyard, while the peril of Lee became more imminent and apparent. 
The Hanoverians were at the horses' heels of the Rangers — they were 
gaining upon them at every step ; in a moment they would be surrounded 
and cut to pieces. 

Lee glanced over his shoulder. He saw his danger at a glance ; they 
were now riding up the hill, the advance company of the enemy were in 
his rear, the main division were some hundred yards behind. In a moment 
the quick word of command rung from his lips, and at the instant, as the 
whole corps attained the summit of the hill, liis men wheeled suddenly 
round, faced the pursuing enemy, and came tlmndering upon their ranks like 
an earth-riven thunderbolt ! 

Another moment ! and the discomfitted Hanoverians lay scattered and 
bleeding along the roadside ; here a steed was thrown back upon its 
haunches, crushing its rider as it fell ; here was a trooper clinging with the 
grasp of death to his horse's neck ; yonder reared another horse without its 
rider, and the ground was littered with the overthrown and wounded 
troopers. 

They swept over the black-coated troopers like a thunderbolt, and in an- 
other instant the gallant Rangers wheeled about, returning in their charge of 
terror with the fleetness of the wind, each man sabreing an enemy as he 
rode, and then, with a wild hurrah, they regained the summit of the hill. 

Lee drew his trooper's cap from his head, his men did the same, and then, 
with their eyes fixed upon the main body of the enemy advancing along the 
foot of the hill, the gallant Rangers sent up a wild hurrah of triumph, wa- 
ving their caps above their heads, and brandishing their swords. 

The enemy returned a yell of execration, but ere they reached the sum- 
mit of the hill, Lee's company were some hundred yards ahead, and all 
pursuit was vain. The Rangers rode fearlessly forward, and, ere an half- 
liour was passed, regained the columns of the retreating army. 

IV.— SUNSET UPON THE BATTLE FIELD. 

It was sunset upon the field of battle — solemn and quiet sunset. The. 
rich, golden light fell over the grassy lawn, over the venerable fabric of 
Chew's house, and over the trees scattered along the field, turning their 
autumnal foliage to quivering gold. 

The scene was full of the spirit of desolation, steeped in death, and crim- 
soned in blood. The green lawn — with tiie sod turned up by the cannon 
wheels, by the tramp of war steeds, by the rush of the foemen — was all 



78 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

henppj witli L'tiaslly piles of iloail, whose cold iiptiirned faces shone with a 
terrible lustre in llic last beams of the declining snn. 

There were senseless carcasses, with the arms rent from the shattered 
body, with the eyes scooped from the hollow sockets, with foreheads severed 
by the sword thrust, with hair ilalibled in blood, with sunken jaws fallen on 
the gory chest ; there was all the horror, all the bloodshed, all the butchery 
of war, without a single gleam of its romance or chivalrv. 

Here a plaid-kilted Highlander, a dark -coated Hanoverian, were huddled 
together in the ghastliness of sudden death ; each with that fearful red wound 
denting the forehead, each with that same repulsive expression of convulsive 
pain, while their unclosed eyes, cold, dead, and lustreless, glared on the blue 
heavens with the glassy look of death. 

Yonder, at the foot of a giant elm, an old Continental, sunk down in the 
grasp of death. His head is sunken on his breast, his white hair all blood- 
bedabbled, his blue luinling shirt spotted with clotted drops of purple. The 
sunburnt hand extended, grasps the unfailing rille — the old warrior is merry 
even in death, for his lip wears a cold and unmoving smile. 

A little farther on a peasant boy bites the sod, with his sunburnt face 
half buried in the blood-soddened earth, his rustic attire of linsey tinted by 
the last beains of the declining sun ; one arm convulsively gathered under 
his head, the long brown hair all stifl'ened with blood, while the other grasps 
the well-used fowling piece, with which he rushed to the field, fought bravely, 
and died like a hero. ']'lie fowling piece is with him in death ; the fowling 
piece — companion of many a boyish ramble beside the Wissahikon, many 
a hunting excursion on the wild and dreamy hills that frown around that 
rivulet — is now beside him, but the hand that encloses its stock is colder 
than the iron of its rusted tube. 

Let us pass over the field, with a soft and solemn footstep, for our path 
is yet stamped with the tread of death ; the ghosts of the heroes are throng- 
ing in the air. 

Chew's house is silent and desolate. The shattered windows, the broken 
hall door, the splintered roof, the battered chimneys, and the walls of the 
house stained with blood : all are silent, yet terrible proofs of the havoc and 
ruin of the fight. 

Silence is witiiin Chew's house. No death-shriek, no groan of agony, 
no voice shrieking to the uplifted sword to spare and pity, breaks upon the 
air. All is still and solemn, and the eye of human vision may not pierce 
the gloom of the unknown, and behold the ghosts of the slain crowding be- 
fore the throne of God. 

The sun is setting over Chew's lawn and house, the soldiers of the 
Hritish army have deserted the place, and as the last beams of day quiver 
over the field, death — terrible and fearful death — broods over the scene, ia 
all its orhastiliness and horror. 



THE LEGEND OF GENERAL AGNEW AGAIN. 73 

v.— THE LEGEND OF GENERAL AGNEW AGAIN. 

Along tlie solitary streets of Germantown, as the sun went clown, rang 
the echo of iiorses' hoofs, and the form of the rider of a gallant war steed 
was seen, disclosed in the last beams of the dying day, as he took his way 
along the village road. 

The horseman ,was tall, well-formed, and muscular in proportion ; his 
hair was slightly touched with the frost of age, and his eye was wild and 
wandering in its glance. The compressed lip, the hollow cheek, the flash- 
ing eye, all told a story of powerful, through suppressed emotion, stirring 
the warrior's heart to bitter thoughts and gloomy memories. 

It was General Agnew, of the British army. He had fought bravely in 
the fight of Chew's house, though the presentiment sat heavy on his soul ; 
he had fought bravely, escaped without a wound, and now was riding alone, 
along the solitary street, toward the MennonisI grave-yard. 

There was an expression on his commanding face that it would have 
chilled your heart to see. It was an expression which stamped his features 
widi a look of doom and fate, which revealed the inward throbbings of his 
soul, as the dark presentiment of the morning, moved over its shadowy 
depths. 

He may have been thinking of his home, away in the fair valleys of Eng- 
land — of the blooming daughter, the briglit-eyed boy, or the matronly wife — 
and then a thought of the terrible wrong involved in the British cause may 
have crossed his soul, for the carnage of Chew's lawn had been most fear- 
ful, and it is not well to slay hundreds of living beings like ourselves, for 
the shadow of a right. 

He reached the point where the road sweeps down the hill, in front of| 
the grave-yard, and as he rode slowly down the ascent, his attention was 
arrested by a singular spectacle. 

The head of a man, grey-bearded and white haired, appeared above the 
grave-yard wall, and a fierce, malignant eye met the gaze of General Agnew. 
It was the strange old man who, in the morning, had asked whether " that 
was General Grey ?" pointing to the person of Agnew as he spoke, and 
being answered, by mistake or design, in the ailirmative, fired a rifle at the 
ofllcer from the shelter of the wall. 

No sooner had the wild face rose above the wall than it suddenly disap- 
peared, and, scarce noting the circumstance, the General reined his steed for 
a moment, on the descent of the hill, and gazed toward the western sky, 
where the setting sun was sinking behind a rainbow hued pile of clouds, all 
brilliant with a thousand contrasted lights. 

The last beams of the sun trembled over the high forehead of General 
Agnew, as, with his back turned to the grave-yard wall, he gazed upon the 
prospect, and his eye lit up with a .sudden brilliancy, when the quick 



74 TIIR BATTLF, OF GF.RMANTOWN. 

and piercing report of a rillf broke on the air, and eclioed around the 
scene. 

A small cloud of lijjlit blue smoke wound upward from the grave-yard 
Wall, a ijhaslly smile overspread tiie face of Ajrncw, lie looked wildly round 
for a single instant, and tiien fell heavily to the dust of the road-side, a — 
lifeless corse. 

His fjidlant steed of ebon darkness of skin, lowered his proud crest, and 
thrust his nostrils in his master's face, his large eyes dilating, as he snuBcd 
the scent of blood upon the air; and at the very moment that same wild 
and ghastly face appeared once more above the stones of the grave-yard 
wall, and a shriek of triumph, wilder and ghastlier than the face, arose 
shrieking above the graves. 

That rille shot, pealing from the grave-yard wall, was the last shot of 
the batllo-day of Germantown ; and that corse flung along the roadside, with 
those cold eyes glaring on the blue sunset sky, with the death-wound near 
the heart, was the last dead man of that day of horror. 

As the sun went down, the dark horse lowered his head, and with quiver- 
ing nostrils, inhaled the last breath of his dving master. 



IDitrt ttic SCrtfi. 



THE FUNERAL OF THE DE.\D. 

"Blessed nro the dcnd which dio in llic Lord, — they rest from their labors, and 
their works do Ibllow iliem." 

I.— TIIE ANCIENT CIIUKCH. 

In the township of Towamensing, some twenty-six miles from Philadel- 
phia, from the green sward of a quiet grave-yard, arises the venerable walls 
of an ancient church, under whose peacelid roof worship the believers in 
the Mennonist faith, as their fathers worshipped before them. 

The grave-yard, with its mounds of green sod. is encircled by a massive 
wall of stone, overshadowed by a grove of primitive oaks, whose giant 
trunks and gnarled branches, as they tower in the blue summer sky, seem 
to share in the sacred stillness and ancient grandeur which rests like a holy 
spell upon the temple and the hamlet of the dead. 

I'ome back with me, reader, once more come back to the ancient revolu- 
tionary time. Come back to the solemnity and gloom of the funeral of the 
dead ; and in the quiet grave-yard we will behold the scene. 



THE ANCIENT CHURCH. 75 

Bands of armed men throng the place of graves ; on every side you behold 
figures of stout men, clad in the uniform of war ; on every side you behold 
stern and scarred visages, and all along the green sward, with its encircling 
grove of oaks, the pomp of banners wave ilauntingly in liie evening air, but 
no glittering bayonet gleams in the ligiit of llie declining day. The banners 
are heavy with folds of crape, the bayonets are unfixed from each musquet, 
and every soldier carries liis arms reversed. 

Near the centre of ttie ground, hard by tiie roadside, are dug four graves, 
tlie upturned earth forming a mound beside each grave, and the sunbeams 
shine upon four coffins, hewn out of rough pine wood, and laid upon Irus- 
sels, with tlie faces of tlie dead cold and colorless, tinted with a ghastly 
gleam of tlie golden sunlight. 

Around the graves are grouped the chieflians of tlie American army, each 
manly brow uncovered, each manly arm wearing the solemn scarf of crape, 
while an expression of deep and ovcrwiiclming grief is stamped upon the 
lines of eacli expressive face. 

Washington stands near tiie collins : his eyes are downcast, and his lip 
is compressed. Wayne is by his side, his bluff countenance marked by 
■infcigncd sorrow; and there stands Greene and 8ullivan, and Maxwell and 
Armstrong, clustered in the same group witli Stirling and Forman, with 
Smallwood and Knox. Standing near the coffin's head, a tall and imposing 
form, clad in a white hued uniform, is disclosed in tiie full light of the sun- 
beams. T+ie face, with tlic wliiskcred lip and the eagle eye, wears the 
same expression of sorrow tliat you behold on the faces of all around. It 
is the Count Pulaski. 

These are the pall-bearers of the dead. 

And in the rear of this imposing group sweep the columns of the Amer- 
ican army, each officer with his sword reversed, each musquet also reversed, 
while all around is sad and still. 

A grey-haired man, tall and imposing in stature, advances from the group 
of j)all-bearers. He is clad in the robes of the minister of heaven, his face 
is marked b)' lines of care and thought, and his calm eye is expressive of a 
mind at peace with God and man. He stands disclosed in the full glow of 
the sunbeams, and while his long grey hairs wave in the evening air, he 
gazes upon the faces of the dead. 

The first corse, resting in the pine coffin, with the banner of blue and 
stars sweeping over its rough surface, and bearing upon its folds the sword 
and chapeau of a general ollicer, is the corse of General Nash. The noble 
features are white as marble, the eyes are closed, and the lip wears the 
smile of death. 

The next corse, with the sword and chapeau of the commanding officer 
of a regiment, is the corse of the brave (Lionel Boyd. 

TJien comes ilie corse of Major While, handsome and dignified even in 



76 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

death. Tlic finely chisselod features, ilic arched brows, the Roman nose, 
and compressed lip, look like the marble of a statue. 

The last corse, the corse of a young man, with a lieutenant's sword and 
cap placed on the coflin, is all that remains of the gallant Virginian, who 
bore the ihig of truce to Chew's house, and was shot down in the act. 
Lieutenant Smith rests in death, and the blood-stained flag of truce is placed 
over his heart. 

The venerable minister advances, he gazes upon the faces of the dead, 
his clear and solemn voice breaks out in tones of impassioned eloquence 
in this. 

II.— FUNI3RAL SERMON OVER THE DEAD.' 

General I^ash, Colontl Boyd, Major White, and Lieutpiiani Smith : buried in TowQ' 
viensing Mennonist G rave-yard, the day after the Battle of G crinantown. 

" Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, — the\' rest from their 
labors, and their works do follow them." 

Soldiers and Countrymen : — Our brethren lie before us in all the solem- 
nity of death. Their eyes are closed, their lips are voiceless ; life, with its 
hurry and turmoil, its hopes and its fears, with them is over forever. They 
have passed from among us, amid the smoke and glare of battle they passed 
away ; and now, in this solemn grove, amid the silence and quiet of the 
evening hour, we have assembled to celebrate their funeral obsequies. 

Brethren, look well upon tiic cor.ses of the dead, mark the eyes hollowed 
by decay, the cheeks sunken, and tlie lips livid with the touch of death; 
look upon these forms, but one short day ago moving and throlibiug with 
the warm blood of life, and now cold, clammy, dead, senseless remains of 
clay. 

But this is not all, brethren ; for as we look upon these corses, the sol- 
emn words of the book break on our ear, through the silence of the even- 
ing air : 

Jilessed are the dead that die in Ike Lord, for iltetj rest from their la- 
bors, and their ivorks do follow them. 

For thev did die in the Lord, my brethren. Fighting in the holiest cause, 
fighting against wrong, and might, and violence, the brave Nash rode into 
the ranks of battle, and while tiie bullets of the hirelings whistled around 



* Note. The auiljor deems it necessary to stale, once for all, llial all the legends 
given in this chronicle, are derived from suh.-«ianiial fact or oral tradition. The legend 
of the Debauch of Death — the old Quaker — the House on the \Vis.sahikon — the escape 
of Wasliiitijton — the prcseiiiiincnt and death of General Aaiiew — the teat of Captain 
Lee — as well as all other incidents are derived from oral tradition. In other points, 
the history of the Rattle is followed as laid down by IMarshall and his contemporaries, 
riiero is some doubt concernin!:; the n;inie of the preacher who dcliveritd tin- funeral 
sermon. Hut with regard to the tuneral ceremonies at tin* !\Iennonist church at Toy. 
nmensins, there can be no doubt. General Niish and his companions in death, wera 
buried with the honors of war, in presence of the whole army the day aller the balilf. 



FUNERAL SERMON OVER THE DEAD. 77 

him, while all was terror and gloom, he fell at the head of his men, bravely 
flashing his sword for his fatherland. 

So fell White, and so fell Boyd ; you have all heard how Lieutenant 
Smilh met his death. You have heard how he went forth on the battle 
morn with the flag of truce in his liand. You have heard how he ap- 
proached the fatal mansion on the battle-field ; you have heard how these 
merciless men pointed tlieir musquets at his heart, and he fell, bathing the 
flag of truce with the warm blood of his heart. 

They fell, but their blood shall not fall unheeded. George of Bruns- 
wick, may augur success to his cause from the result of this fight, but the 
weak and mistaken man shall soon know his delusion false. 

From every drop of patriot blood sinking in the sod of Germanlown, a 
hero shall arise ! From the darkness and death of that terrible fight, I see 
the angel of our country's freedom springing into birth; be3'ond the clouds 
and smoke of batUe, I behold the dawning of a brighter and more glorious 
day. 

They rest from their labors. From the toilsome labor of the night march, 
from the fierce labor of the batfie charge, from the labor of bloodshed and 
death they rest. 

They will no more share the stern joy of the meeting of congregated 
armies ; no more ride the steed to batd6 i no more feel their hearts throb at 
the sound of the trumpet. All is over. 

They rest from their labors ! Aye, in the solemn courts of heaven they 
rest from their labors, and the immortal great of the past greet them with 
smiles and beckonings of joy, their hearts are soothed by tlie hymnings of 
angels, and the voice of the Eternal bids tliem welcome. 

From the dead let me turn to the living. 

Let me speak for a moment to the men of the gallant band ; let me tell 
them that God will fight for them ; that though the battle may be fierce and 
bloody, still the sword of the Unknown will glisten on the side of the free- 
men-brothers ; that though the battle clouds may roll their shadows of gloom 
over heaps of dying and dead, yet from those very clouds will spring the 
day of Freedom, from the very carnage of the battle-field, will bloom the 
fruits of a peaceful land. 

Man, chosen among men, as the leader of freemen, I speak to thee ! And 
as the prophets of old, standing on the ramparts of Israel, raised their hands, 
and blessed the Hebrew chieftains as they went forth to battle, so now I 
bless thee, and bless thy doings ; by the graves of the slain, and by the 
corses of the patriot dead, I sanctify thy arms, in the name of that God who 
never yet beheld fearful wrong without sudden vengeance — in the name of 
that Redeemer, whose mission was joy to the captive, freedom to the slave, 
I bless thee, — Washington. 

On, on, in thy career of glory ! 

INot the glory of bloodshed, not the halo that is born of the phosphores- 

8 



78 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

cent liglit hovering around the carcasses of tlie dead, not the empty fame of 
human sl;uigliler. No — no. 

The glory of a pure soul, actuated hy one motive of good, straining every 
purpose of lieart to accomplish tliat motive ; neither heeding the threats of 
the merciless tyrant, on the one hand, or the calls of ambition on the other, 
but speeding forward, with sure and steady steps, to the goal of all thy 
hopes — the freedom of this' land of the new world. 

Such is thy glory, Washington. 

On, then, ye gallant men, on, in your career of glory. To day all may 
be dark, all may be sad, all may be steeped in gloom. You may be driven 
from one battle-field, you may beliold your comrades fall wounded and dying 
in the path of your retreat. Carnage may thin your ranks, disease walk 
through your tents, death track your footsteps. 

But the bright day will come at last. The treasure of blood will find its 
recompense, the courage, the self-denial and daring of this time will work 
out the certain reward of tlie country's freedom. 

Then behold the fruits of j-our labors. 

A land of mighty rivers, colossal mountains, a land of luxnrious vallies, 
fertile plains, a land of freemen, peopled by happy multitudes of millions, 
whose temples echo with hosannns to (Jod, whose uraises repeat your 
names, gallant survivors of the battle-lield of Germantown. 

"THEIR WOItl^S DO FOLLOW TUEM!" 

Yes — yes. From the I'jternal world, our departed triends shall look 
down upon the fruit of their works. From the Vast Unseen they shall look 
down upon your banner of blue as the sun gleam of victory glitters on its 
stars. They shall behold the skeletons of the invader strewing our shores, 
his banners trailed in the dust, his armies annihilated, his strong men over- 
thrown, and the temple of his power, toppled from its strong foundations. 

They rest from their labors. 

Oil, glorious is their resting place, oh, most glorious is their home ! As 
they flee on spirit-wings to their eternal abode, the ghosts of the mighty- 
head, come crowding to the portals of the Unknown, and hail them welcome 
home ! Brutus of old is there, shaking his gory dagger aloft, Hampden and 
Sidney are there, and there are the patriot martyrs from all the scalfolds of 
oppressed Europe, each mighty spirit sounding a welcome to the martyrs 
of New World freedom. 

The dead of Bunker Hill are there, the form of Warren is among the first 
in the niiuhtv crowd, and there, raising their gory hands on high, a band of 
the martyred men of Brandywine, press forward, and hail their compeers 
of Oermantown a welcome home. 

Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord. 

Oh '. thrice blessed, oh ! blessed on the tongues of nations, blessed in the 



PRAYER FOR THE DEAD. 79 

hymns of little cliildren, blessed in the tears of woman, shed for their mar- 
tyrdom ; blessed in the world beyond, forever and forever blessed. 

Farewell to ye, mighty dead, on earth ! The kind hands of wife or child 
were not passed over your brows, when the big drops of the death-dew an- 
nounced tlie approach of tlie last enemy of man ! No blooming ciiild, no 
suft-voiced wile, no fair-haired boy was near ye. 

Alone ye died. Alone amid the ranks of battle, or ere the battle shout 
had yet ceased to echo on your ear. Alone, with fever in your brain, with 
fever in your heart?, with maddening throes of pain, forcing from your 
manly lips the invokintarj' cry of agon}', yet, with your native land upper- 
most in your thoughts, ye died. 

And now, brethren, the sun sinking in the west, warns me to close. The 
bright golden beams tint the tops of the trees, and fling a sliower of light 
over the roof of the ancient church. The sky above arches calm and azure, 
as though the spirits of the dead smiled from yon clime upon our solemn 
ceremonies. The liour is still and solemn, and all nature invites us to the 
oflering of prayer. Let us pray. 

Ill— PRAYER FOR THE DEAD. 

Father of Heaven, we bow before thee, under the temple of the clear 
blue sky and within the shadow of yon oaken grove, we bow beside the 
corses of the dead. Our hearts are sad, our souls are awed. Up to thy 
tbroue we send our earnest prayers for this, our much-afflicted land. Turn, 
oh ! God, turn the burning sword from between us and the sun of thy coun- 
tenance. Lift the shadow of death from our land. And, as in the olden 
times, thou didst save the oppressed, even when the blood-stained grasp of 
wrong was at their throats, so save thou us, now — oh, most merciful God '. 

And if the voice of prayer is ever heard in thy courts, for the spirits of 
the dead, then let our voices now plead with thee, for the ghosts of the 
slain, as they crowd around the portals of the Unseen world. 

Oh ! Lord God, look into our hearts, and there behold every pulse throb- 
bing, every vein filling wilii one desire, which we now send up to thee, 
witii hands and soul upraised — the desire of freedom for this fair land. 

Give us success in this our most holy cause. In the name of the mar- 
tyred dead of the past, in the name of that shadowy band, whose life-blood 
dyes a tiiousand scaffolds, give us freedom. 

In the name of Jesus give us peace ! Make strong the hands of thy ser- 
vant even George Washington. Make strong the hearts of his counsellors, 
stir them up to greater deeds even than the deeds they have already done, 
let thy presence be with our host, a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of 
fire by night. 

And at last, when our calling shall have been fulfilled, when we liave 



80 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 

(lone and sulTered thy will here below, receive us into tlie Rest of the 
Blessed. 

So shall it be said of us — 

" Jilcssed arc the dead ivliick die in the iMrd, — Ihei/ rest from their la- 
bors, and their works do follow them !" 

The last words of the preacher, sank into the hearts of his hearers. 
Every man felt awed, every sonl was thrilled. 

The preacher made a sign to the group of war-worn soldiers in attend- 
ance at the head of the graves. The coffins were lowered in their recep- 
tacles of death. The man of God advanced, and took a handful of earth, 
from one of the uprising mounds. 

There was universal silence around the graves, and thro' the grave-yard. 

" Earth to earth, anhes to aahes, dust to dust." 

The sound of the earth rattling on the coffin of General Nash, broke with 
a stra[ige echo on the air. 

Slowly along the sod, passed the minister of heaven speaking the solemn 
words of the last ceremony, as he flung the handful of earth upon each 
coffin. 

A single moment passed, and a file of soldiers, with upraised musquefs, 
extended along the graves. The word of command rang out upon -the air, 
and the shot after shot, the alternating reports of the musquets, broke like 
thunder over the graves of the h\urelled dead. 

The soldiers suddenly swept aside, and in a moment, a glittering cannon 
was wheeled near the graves, with the cannonier standing with the lighted 
linstock, by its side. The subdued word of command again was heard, the 
earthquake thundor of the cannon shook the graveyard, and like a pall for 
the mighty dead, the thick folds of smoke, waved heavily above the grave. 

Again did die fde of musquetry pour fortli the fire, again did die cannons 
send forth their flame, flashing down into the very graves of the dead, while 
the old church walls gave back the echo. — Again was the ceremony re- 
peated, and as the thick folds of cannon-smoke waved overhead, the soldi- 
ers opened to the right and left, and the pall-bearers of the dead advanced. 

They advanced, and one by one looked into the graves of the slain. 

This was the scene when Washington looked for the last time into the 
grave of Nash and his death-mates. 

The sun setting behind the grove of oaks threw a veil of sunshine over 
the masses of armed men thronging the grave-yard, over tlie reversed arms, 
and craped banner of blue and stars. The form of AV'asbington, standing at 
the head of the grave, was disclosed in all its majesty of proportion, his face 
impressed with an expression of sorrow, and his right hand reversing 
his craped sword ; AVavne — the gallant, the noble, the fearless Wayne — 
stood at his right shoulder, and then sweeping in a line along the graves, 
extended the chieftains of the army, each face stamped with grief, each right 
arm holding the reversed sword : there was the sagacious face of Greene, 



PRAYER FOR THE DEAD. 81 

the bliifT visage of Knox, llie commanding features of Sullivan, the manly 
countenances of Maxwell, Stirling, Forman, Conway, ant! the other oihcers 
of the continental host. All were grouped there beside the graves of the 
slain, and as every eye was fixed upon the coffins sprinlvled with earth, a 
low, solemn peal of music floated along the air, and a veteran advancing to 
the grave, flung to the wind the broad banner of blue and stars, and the last 
glimpse of sun-liglu fell upon this solemn relic of the 



JJattlc^Bas of OSrtmanto^n. 



BOOK SECOND. 

WISSAHIKON. 



THE WISSAIIIKON. 



WlSSAIIIKON ! 

Thai iimiie, soft as the wind of M:iy, breathing its perfume over the 
brow of the way-worn wanderer — melodious as a burst of music, sweUing 
from afar, over the bosom of still waters — sad and wild, as the last groan of 
a dying warrior, who conquering all vain regrets by one strong impulse of 
liis passing soul, sternly gives up his life to God — Wissahikon ! 

That name speaks to our hearts with a pathos all its own. Yes, it 
speaks to our hearts with a strange and mingled meaning, whether written 
Wissaliic'kon, or Wissahiccon, or pronounced as it fell from the lips of the 
Indian maidens in the olden time, who bathed tlieir forms in its waters, and 
adorned their raven hair with the lilies and wild roses that grow in its deep 
woods — Wlssahikone ! 

That word speaks of rocks, piled up in colossal grandeur, with waves 
murmuring at their feet, and dark green pines blooming forever on their 
brows. 

That name tells me of a tranquil stream, that flows from the fertile 
meadows of White marsh, and then <deaves its way for eiglit miles, through 
rocks of eternal granite, now refleining on its waves tlie dark grey walls and 
steep roof of some forest hidden mill, now burynig itself beneath the 
shadows of overhanging trees, and then comes laughing into the sun, like a 
maiden smiling at tlie danger that is past. 

We will go down to Wissahikon. 

You have been there ; some of you in the still summer afternoon, when 
the light laugh of girlhood rang througli the woods — some of you perchance 
in the early dawn, or in the jiurple twilight when the shadows came darkly 
over the waters. 

But to go down into its glens at midnight, when silence like death is 
brooding tliere ! Then the storm-cloud gathers like a pall — then, eliujing 
to yon awful clilT that yawns ahove the blackness, you hear the Thunder 
speak to the still woods, and the deeps far below, speak back again their 
Thunder. Then at dead of night, you see the red lightning flashing down 
over the tall pines, down over the dark waters, quivering and trembling with 
its arrows of wrath, far into the shadows of the glen. 

At last the storm-cloud rolls back its pall. The silver moon comes 
shining out, smiling from her window in the sky. The Eagle too, lord of 

9 (85j 



80 THE WISSAHIKON. 

the wil<l domain, starts from liis percli, and wheels tliroiigh liie deep azure, 
circling round the moon, liathing his pinions in her light as he looks for the 
coming of his God, the sun. 

Had you been there at dead of night, as I have been, you would know 
something of the supernatural grandeur, the awful beauty of the Wissahi- 
kon ; then, even though you were an Atheist, you would have knelt down 
and felt the existence of a God. 

The Wis.saliikon wears a beauty all its own. True, the Hudson is mag- 
nificent with her mingled panorama of mountain and valley, tumultuous 
river and tranquil hay. To me she seems a Queen, who re|)oses in strange 
majesty, a crown of snow upon her forehead of granite, the leaf of llie In- 
dian corn, the spear of wheat, mingled in the girdle which binds her waist, 
the murmur of rippling water ascending from the valley beneath her feet. 

The Susquehanna is awfully sublime ; a warrior who rushes from his 
home in the forest, hews his way tlirough primeval mouiuains, and howls 
in his wrath as he hurries to the ocean. Ever and anon, like a Conqueror 
overladened with the spoils of battle, he scatters a gredn island in his path, 
or like the same Conqueror relenting from the fury of the fight, smiles like 
Heaven in the wavelets of some tranquil bay. 

Neither Queen, nor AVarrior is the Wissahikon. 

Let us look at its Image, as it rises before us. 

A Prophetess, who with her cheek embrowned by tlic sun, and her dark 
hair — not gathered in clusters or curling in ringlets — falling straightly to her 
white shoulders, comes forth from her cavern in the woods, and speaks to 
us in a low soft tone, that awes and wins our hearts, and looks at us with 
eyes whose steady light and supernatural brightness bewilders our soul. 

Yes, whenever I hear the word — Wissaliikon — I fancy its woods and 
waves, embodied in the form of an Indian Prophetess, of the far gone time. 

Oh, there are strange legends hovering around those wild rocks and dells 
— legends of those Monks who dwelt there long ago, and worshipped God 
without a creed — legends of that far gone time, when the white robed In- 
dian priests came up the dell at dead of night, leading the victim to the altar 
— to the altar of bloody sacrifice — that victim a beautiful and trembling girl. 

Now let us listen to the Prophetess as she speaks, and while her voice 
thrills, her eyes fire us, let us hear from her lips the Legends of the olden 
times. 

1 — THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 

It stood in the shadows of the Wissahikon woods, th;it ancient I\Ion- 
astery, its dark walls canopied by the boughs of the gloomy pine, inter- 
woven with leaves of grand old oaks. 

From the waters of the wood-hidden stream, a winding road led up to its 
gales ; a winding road overgrown with tall rank grass, and sheltered from 
the light by the thick brandies above. 



THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 87 

A Monastery? Yes, a Monastery, here amid tlio wilds of AVissahikoa, 
in the year of Grace 1773, a Monastery built upon the soil of William 
Penn ! 

Let me paint it for you, at the close of this calm summer day. 

The beams of the sun, declining far in the west, shoot between the thickly 
gathered leaves, and liglit up the green sward, around those massive gates, 
and stream with suddeu glory over the dark old walls. It is a Monastery, 
yet here we behold no swelling dome, no Gothic turrets, no walls of mas- 
sive stone. A huge square edifice, built one hundred years ago of the 
trunks of giant oaks and pines, it rises amid the woods, like the temple of 
some long forgotten religion. The roof is broken into many fantastic 
forms ; — here it rises in a steep gable, yonder the heavy logs are kid pros- 
trate ; again they swell into a shapeless mass, as though stricken by a 
hurricane. 

Not many windows are there in the dark old walls, but to the west four 
large square spaces framed in heavy pieces of timber, break on your eye, 
while on the other sides the old house presents one blank mass of logs, ris- 
ing on logs. 

No : not one blank mass, for at this time of year, when the breath of 
June hides the Wissahikon in a world of leaves, the old Monastery looks 
like a grim soldier, who scathed by time and battle, wears yet thick wreaths 
of laurel over his armour, and about his brow. 

Green vines girdle the ancient house on every side. From the squares 
of the dark windows, from the intervals of the massive logs, they hang in 
luxuriant festoons, while the shapeless roof is all one mass of leaves. 

Nay, even the wall of logs which extends around the old house, with a 
ponderous gate to the west, is green with the touch of June. Not a trunk 
but blooms with some drooping vine; even the gateposts, each a solid 
column of oak, seem to wave to and fro, as the summer breeze plays with 
their drapery of green leaves. 

It is a sad, still hour. The beams of the sun stream with fitful splendor 
over the green sward. That strange old mansion seems as sad and deso- 
late as the tumb. But suddenly — hark! Do you hear the clanking of 
those bolts, the crashing of the unclosing gates ? 

Tlie gates creak slowly aside ! — let us steal behind this cluster of pines, 
and gaze upon tlie inhabitants of the Monastery, as they come forth for 
their evening walk 

Three iignres issue from the opened gates, an old man whose withered 
features and whjte hairs are thrown strongly into the fading light, by his 
long robe of dark velvet. On one arm, leans a young girl, also dressed in 
black, her golden hair falling — not in ringlets — but in rich masses, to her 
shoulders. She bends upon his arm, and with that living smile upon her 
lips, and in her eyes, look up into his face. 

On the other arm, a young man, whose form, swelling with the proud 



88 THE WISSAHIKON. 

outlines of early manhood, is attireJ in a robe or gown, dark as his father's 
while his bronzed face, sliaded by curling brown hair, seems to reflect the 
silent thought, wrillcn upon the old man's brow. 

They pace slowly along the sod. Not a word is spoken. The old man 
raises his eyes, and lifts the square cap from his brow — look ! how that 
golden beam plays along his brow, while the evening breeze tosses his 
white hairs. 'I'iiere is much suffering, many deep traces of tlie Past, writ- 
ten on his wrinkled face, but the liglil of a wild entiiusiasm beams from his 
blue eyes. 

The young man — his dark eyes wildly glaring fixed upon the sod — moves 
by the old man's side, but speaks no word. 

The girl, that image of maidenly grace, nurtured into beauty, within an 
hour's journey of the (-ity, and yet afar from the world, slill bends over that 
aged arm, and looks sinihngiy into that withered face, her glossy hair wav- 
ing in the summer wind. 

Wiio are tliese, tiiat come hither, pacing, at the evening hour, along the 
wild moss ? The father and his children ! 

What means that deep strange liglit, flasiiing not only from the blue eyes 
of the father, but from the dark eyes of his son .' 

Does it need a second glance to tell you, that it is the light of Fanaticism, 
that distortion of Faith, the wild glare of Superstition, that deformity of Re- 
ligion ? 

The night comes slowly down. Slill the Father and son pace the ground 
in silence, while the breeze freshens and makes low music among the 
leaves. — Slill tlie young girl, bending over the old man's arm, smiles ten- 
derly in his face, as though siie would driv.e the sadness from his brow with 
one gleam of iier mild blue eyes. 

At last — within the shadows of the gate, their faces lighted by the last 
gleam of the setting sun — the old man and his son stand like figures of 
stone, while each grasps a hand of the young girl. 

Is it not a strange yet beautiful picture? The old Monastery forms one 
dense mass of shade; on either side extends the darkening forest, yet here, 
within the portals of the gate, the three figures are grouped, while a warm, 
soft mass of tufted moss, spieads before them. The proud manhood of the 
son, contrasted with the white locks of the father, the tender yet voluptuous 
beauty of the girl relieving the thought and sadness, which glooms over 
each brow. 

Hold — the Father presses the wrist of his Son with a convulsive grasp — 
hush ! Do you hear that low deep whisper? 

" At last, it comes to my soul, the Fulfilment of Prophecy !" he whispers 
and is silent again, but his lip trembles and his eye glares. 

"But the lime — Father — I he lime?" the Son replies in the same deep 
voice, while his eye dilating, fires with the same feeling that swells his 
Father's heart. 



THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 89 

" Tlie last day of this year — the^ third hour after midnight — the De- 
liverer WILL COME !" 

These words may seem lame and meaningless, when spoken again, but 
liad you seen ihe look that kindled over the old man's face, his while hand 
raised above his head, had you heard his deep voice swelling through the 
silence of the woods, each word would ring on your ear, as though it quiv- 
ered from a spirit's tongue. 

Tlien the old man and his son knelt on the sod, while the young girl — 
looking in tiieir faces wilh wonder and awe — sank silently beside them. 

The tones of Prayer broke upon the stillness of the darkening woods. 

Tell us the meaning of this scene. Wherefore call this huge edifice, 
where dark logs are clothed in green leaves, by tiie old world name of Mo- 
nastery ? Who are these — father, son, and daughter — that dwell within its 
walls ? 

Seventeen j'ears a^o — from this year of Grace, 1773, — there came to the 
wilds of the Wissahikon, a man in the prime of mature manhood, clad in a 
long, dark robe, with a cross of silver gleaming on his breast. With one 
arm he gathered to his heart a smiling babe, a litde girl, whose golden hair 
floated over his dark dress like sunshine over a pall ; by the other hand he 
led a dark haired boy. 

His name, his origin, his object in the wilderness, no one knew, but pur- 
chasing the ruined Block-House, which bore on its walls and timbers the 
marks of many an Indian fight, he shut himself out from all the world. His 
son, his daughter, grew up together in this wild solitude. The voice of 
prayer was often heard at dead of night, by the belated huntsman, swelling 
from tlie silence of the lonely house. 

By slow degrees, whether from the cross which the old stranger wore 
upon his breast, or from the sculptured images which had been seen within 
the walls of his forest home, the place was called — the Monastery — and its 
occupant the Priest. 

Had he been drawn from his native home by crime ? Was his name 
enrolled among the titled and the great of his Father-land, Germany ? Or, 
perchance, he was one of those stern visionaries, the Pietists of Germany, 
who, lashed alike by Catholic and Protestant persecutors, brought to the 
wilds of Wissahikon their beautiful Fanaticism? 

For that Fanaticism, professed by a band of brothers, who years before, 
driven from Germany, came here to Wissahikon, built their Monastery, and 
worshipped God, without a written creed, was beautiful. 

It was a wild belief, tinctured with the dreams of Alchemists, it may be, 
yet still full of faith in God, and love to man. Persecuted by the Pro- 
testants of Germany, as it was by the Catholics of France, it still treasured 
tiie Bible as its rule and the Cross as its symbol. 

The Monastery, in which the brothers of the faith lived for long years, 



90 THE WISSAIIIKON. 

was situated' on the brow of a hill, not a mile from tlie old Glock-House. 
Here iJie Brothers had dwelt, in the deep serenity of their own hearts, until 
one evening they gathered in lliuir garden, around the form of their dying 
fatiicr, wiio yielded his soul to Goil in their midst, while the selling sun 
and the calm silence of univcisal nature gave a strange grandeur to the 
scene. 

15nt it was not wiili this Brotherhood that the stranger of the Block-House 
held coninuuiion. 

His communion was with tlie dark-eyed son, who grew up, drinking the 
fanaticism of his faiiicr, in many a midnight watch with the golden-haired 
daughter, whose smile was wont to drive the gloom from his brow, the 
wearing anxiety from his heart. 

Who was the stranger ? No one knew. The farmer of the Wissahikon 
liad often seen his dark-robed form, passing like a ghost under the solemn 
pines ; the wandering huntsman iiad ma»y a time, on his midnight ramble, 
heard the sounds of prayer breaking along the silence of the woods from 
the Block-House walls : yet still the life, origin, objects of the stranger were 
wrapt in impenetrable mystery. 

Would you know more of his life ! Would you penetrate the mystery 
of this dim old Monastery, shadowed by the thickly-clustered oaks and 
pines, shut out from the world by the barrier of impenetrable forests ? 

Would j'ou know the meaning of those strange words, uttered by the old 
man, on the calm summer evening ? 

Come with me, then — at midnight — on the last day of 1773. We will 
enter the Block-House together, and behold a scene, which, derived fi'om a 
tradition of the past, is well calculated to thrill the heart with a deep awe. 

It is midnight : there is snow on the ground : the leafless trees fling their 
bared limbs against the cold blue of the starlit sky. 

The old Block-House rises dark and gloomy from the snow, with the 
heavy trees extending all around. 

The wind sweeps through the woods, not with a boisterous roar, but the 
strange sad cadence of an organ, whose notes swell away through the arches 
of a dim cadiedral aisle. 

Who would dream that living beings tenanted this dark mansion, arising 
in one black mass from the bed of snow, its huge timbers, revealed in 
various indistinct forms, by the eold clear light of the stars J Centred in 
the midst of the desolate woods, it looks like the abode of spirits, or yet like 
some strange sepulchre, in which the dead of long-past ages lie entombed. 

There is no foot-track on the winding road — the snow presents one 
smooth white surface — yet die gates are thrown wide open, as if ready for 
the coming of a welcome guest. 

Through this low, narrow door — also flung wide open — along this dark 
cqrridor, we will enter the Monastery. 



THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 91 

In the centre of this room, illumined by the light of two tiill white candles, 
sits the old man, his slender form clad in dark velvet, with the silver cross 
ffleajninir on his bosom, buried in the cushions of an oaken chair. 

His slender hands are laid upon his knees — he sways slowly to and fro 
— while his large bine eye, dilating with a wild stare, is fixed upon the 
opposite wall. 

Hush ! Not a word — not even the creaking of a footstep — for this old 
man, wrapped in his thoughts, sitting alone in the centre of this strangely 
furnished room, fills us with involuntary reverence. 

Strangely furnished room ? Yes, circular in form, with a single doorway, 
huge panels of dark oaken wainscot, rise from the bared floor to the gloomy 
ceiling. Near the old man arises a white altar, on which the candles are 
placed, its spotless curtain floating down to the floor. Between the candles, 
you behold, a long, slender flagon of silver, a wreath of laurel leaves, fresli 
gathered from the Wissahikon iiills, and a Holy Bible, bound in velvet, with 
antique clasps of gold. 

Behind the altar, gloomy and sullen, as if struggling with the shadows of 
the room, arises a cross of Iron. 

On yonder small fire-place, rude logs of oak and hickory scrid up their 
mingled smoke and flame. 

Tlie old man sits there, his eyes growing wilder in their gaze every 
moment, fixed upon the solitary door. Still he sways to and fro, and now 
his thin lips move, and a faint murmur fills the room. /. 

" //e will come J" mutters the Priest of the Wissahikon, as common 
rumor named him. "^t the third hour after midnight, the Dcliiierer will 
come.''" 

These words acquire a singular interest from the toire and look which 
accompany their utterance. 

Hark — the door opens — the young man with the bronzed face and deep 
dark eyes, appears — advances to his father's side. •; 

" Father" — whispers the young man — " May it not Jie a vain fancy after 
all ! This Hope that the Deliverer will come ere the rising of the sun ?" 

You can see the old man turn suddenly round — his eye blazes as he 
grasps his son by the wrist. 

" Seventeen years ago, I left my father-land, became an exile and an out- 
cast ! Seventeen years ago, I forsook the towers of my race, that even 
now, darken over the bosom of the Rhine — I, whose name was ennobled 
by the ancestral glories of thirteen centuries, turned my back at once on 
pomp, power, — all that is worshipped by the herd of mankind ! In my 
native laud, they have believed me dead for many years — the casUe, the 
broad domains that by the world's law, are yours, my son, now own 
another's rule — and here we are, side by side, in this rude temple of the 
Wissahikon! Why is this, my son ? — Speak, Paul, and answer rac, why 



92 THE WISSAHIKON. 

do we dwell together, the father aiid his children, in this wild forest of a 
stranije land .'" 

The sun veiled his eyes with his clasped hands : the emotion of his 
fatiicr's look, thrilled him to the sold. 

" 1 will toll you wiiy ! yevcnieeu years ago, as I bent over the body of 
my dead wife, even in the death-vault of our castle, on the Rhine, the 
Voice of God, spake to my soul — bade me resign all the world and its toys 
— bade me take my children, and go forth to a strange land !"' 

" And there await the Fulfilment of Prophecy !" whispered Paul, raising 
his hand from the clasped hands. 

" For seventeen years 1 have buried my soul, in the pages of that book" — 

" I have shared your studies, father ! Reared afar from the toll and the 
vanity of worldly life, I liave made my home with you in this hermitage. 
Together we have wept — prayed — watched over liie pages of Revelation !" 

" You have become part of my soul," said the Priest of Wissahikon, in a 
softened voice, as he laid his withered hand upon the white forehead of his 
son: "you might have been noble in your native land; yes, your sword 
might have carved for you a gory renow n from the corses of dead men, 
butchered in bailie ; or the triumphs of poetry and art, might have clothed 
your brow in laurel, and yet you have chosen your lot with me ; with me, 
devoted life and soul lo the perusal of God's solemn book I" 

The dark eye of the son began to burn, with the same wild light that 
blazed over his father's face. 

" And our studies, our long and painful search into the awful world, which 
the Uible opens to our view, has ended in a knowledge of these great truths — 
The Old If'orld is sunk in all manner of crime, as was the jJnte-Deluvian 
World ; — THE New World is given to man as a refuge, even as the Ark 
was given to iVo«/» and his children. 

" The New If'orld is the lust altar of human freedom hft on the surface 
of the Globe. Never shall the footsteps of Kings pollute its soil. Jl is 
the last hope of man, God has spoken, and it is so — Amen !" 

The old man's voice rung, in deep, solemn tones, through the lonely 
room, while his eye seemed lo burn as with the fire of Propliecy. 

" The voice of God has spoken to me, in my thoughts by day, in my 
dreams by night — / will send a Deliverer to thin land of the Xcw If'orld, 
who shall save my people from physical bondage, even as my Son saved 
them from the bondage of spiritual death.' 

"And to-night he will come, at the third hour after midnight, he will 
come through yonder door, and lake upon himself his great Mission, to free 
the New World from the yoke of the Tyrant! 

" Yes, my son, six months ago, on liiat calm summer evening, as with 
Catherine leaning on one arm, you on the other, I strolled forth along the 
woods, that voice whispered a message to my soul ! To-nigbt the De- 
liverer will come !" 



THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 93 

'• All is ready for his coming !" exclaimed Paul, advancing to the altar. 
« Behold the Crown, tlie Flagon of Anointing Oil, the Bible and tlie Cross !" 
The old man arose, lifting his withered hands above his head, whde the 
light streamed over his silver hairs. 

" Even as the Prophets of old anointed the brows of men, chosen by- 
God to do great deeds in His name, so will 1, — purified by the toil and 
prayer, and self-denial of seventeen long years, — anoint the forehead of the 
Deliverer !" 

Hark ! As the voice of the aged enthusiast, tremulous with emotion, 
quivers on the air, the dock, in the hall without, tells the hour of twelve ! 
As the tones of that bell ring through the lonely Block House, like a voice 
from the other world — deep, sad and echoing — the last minute of 1773 sank 
in the glass of Time, and 1774 was born. 

Then they knelt, silently beside the altar, the old man and his son. The 
white hairs of the Priest, mingled with the brown locks of Paul ; their hands 
clasped together rested upon the Bible, which was opened at the Book of. 
Revelations. 

Their separate prayers breathed in low whispers from each lip, mingled 
together, and went up to Heaven in one. 

An hour passed. Hark ! Do you hear the old clock again ? How that 
sullen One ! swells through the silent halls ! 

Still they kneel together there — still the voice of the prayer quivers from 
each tongue. 

Another hour, spent in silent prayer, with bowed head and bended knees. 
As the clock speaks out the hour of two, the old man rises and paces the 
floor. 

" Place your hand upon my heart, my son ! Can you feel its throb- 
bings ? Upon my brow — ah ! it burns like living fire ! The hour draws 
nigh — he conies ! Yes, my heart throbs, my brain fires, but iTiy faith in 
God is firm — the Deliverer will come !" 

Vain were the attempt to picture the silent agony of that old man's face ! 
Call him dreamer — call h'im fanatic — what you will, you must still admit 
that a great soul throbbed within his brain — still you must reverence the 
strong heart which beats within his shrunken chest. 

H'i\[ must you remember that this old man was once a renowned lord; 
that he forsook all that the world holds dear, buried himself for seventeea 
years in the wilds of this forest, his days and nights spent amid tlie dark 
pages of the Revelations of Saint John. 

Up and down the oaken floor, now by the altar, where the light shone 
over his brow, now in the darkness where the writhings of his countenance 
were lost in shadows, the old man hurried along, his eye blazing with a 
wilder light, his withered cheek with a warmer glow. 

Meanwhile the son remained kneeling in prayer. The lights burned 
dimly — the room was covered with a twilight gloom. Still the Iron Cross 

10 



94 THE WISSAHIKON. 

was seen — tlie wliole aliar slill broke through the darkness, wiih its silver 
Flagon and Laurel Crown. 

Hark ! That sound — the clock is on the liour of three ! The old man 
starts, quivers, listens ! 

One ! rings through the desolate mansion. 

" I hear no sound !" mutters the enthusiast. lUit the words liad not 
passed on his lips, when Two ! swells on the air. 

"lie comes not!" cries Paul darting to his feet, his features quivering 
with suspense. They clasp their hands together — they listen with frenzied 
intensity. 

" Slill no footstep ! Not a sound !"' gasped Paid. 

" But he ifill come !" and the old man, sublime in the energy of fanati- 
cism, towered erect, one hand to his heart, while the other quivered in 
the air. 

Three ! Tiie last stroke of the bell swelled — echoed — and died away. 
" He comes not !" gasped the son, in agony — " But yes ! Is there not a 
footstep on the frozen snow ? Hark ! Fatlier, lather ! do you hear that 
footstep ? It is on the threshold now — it advances — " 

" He comes !" whispered the old man, while the sweat stood out in 
> beads from his withered brow. 

— " It advances, father ! Yes, along the hall — hark ! There is a hand 
on the door — hah ! All is silent again ! It is but a delusion — no ! He is 
come at last !" 

" At last he is come !" gasped the old man, and with one impulse they 
sank on their knees. Ilark ! You hear the old door creak on its hinges, 
as it swings slowly open — a strange voice breaks the silence. 

" Friends, I have lost my way in the forest," said the voice, speaking in 
a calm, manly tone. " Can you direct me lo the right way ?" 

The old man looked up ; a cry of wonder trembled from his lips. As 
for the son, he gazed in silence on the Stranger, while his features were 
stamped with inexpressible surprise. 

The Stranger stood on the threshold, his face to the light, his form thrown 
boldly forward, by the darkness at his back. / 

He stood there, not as a Conqueror on the battle field, with the spoils of 
many nations trampled under his feel. 

Towering above the stature of common men, his form was clad in the 
dress of a plain gentleman of that time, fashioned of black velvet, with ruf- 
fles on the bosom and around the wrist, diamond buckles gleaming from his 
shoes. 

Broad in the shoidders, beautiful in the sinewy proportions of each limb, 
he stood there, extending iiis hat in one hand, while the other gathered his 
heavy cloak around the arm. 

His while forehead, large, overarched eyes, which gleamed even through 
the darkness of the room with a calm, clear light ; his lips were firm ; his 



THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 95 

chin round and fidl ; the general contour of his face stamped with the settled 
beauty of mature manhood, mingled with the lire of chivalry. 

In one word, he was a man whom you would single out among a crowd 
of ten thousand, for his grandeur of bearing, his calm, collected dignity of 
expression and manner. 

" Friends," he again began, as he started back, surprised at the sight of 
the kneeling enthusiasts, " I have lost my way — " 

" 'i'hou hast not lost thy way," spoke the voice of the old man, as he 
arose and confronted tlie stranger ; " thou hast found thy way to usefulness 
and immortal renown !" 

The Siranger advanced a footstep, while a warm glow overspread his 
commanding face. Paul stood as if spell-bound by the calm gaze of his 
clear, deep eyes. 

" Nay — do not start, nor gaze upon me in such wonder ! I tell thee the 
voice that speaks from my lips, is the voice of Revelation. Thou art called 
to a great work ; kneel before the altar and receive thy mission \" 

Nearer to the altar drew the Stranger. 

"This is but folly — you make a mock of me !" he began ; but the wild 
gaze of the old man thrilled his heart, as with magnetic tire. He paused, 
and stood silent and wondering. . 

" Nay, doubt me not ! To-night, fdled with strange thoughts on j^our 
country's Future, you laid yourself down to sleep within your habitation in 
yonder city. But sleep fled from your eyes — a feeling of resUessness drove 
you forth into the cold air of night — " 

" This is true !" muttered the Stranger in a musing tone, while his face 
expressed surprise. 

" As you dashed along, mounted on the steed wliicli soon will bear your 
form in the ranks of balde, the cold air of night fanned your hot brow, but 
could not drive from your soul the Thought of your Country !" 

' How knew you this ?" and the Stranger started forward, grasping the 
old man suddenly by the wrist. 

Deeper and bolder thrilled the tones of the old Enthusiast. 

" The rein fell loosely on your horse's neck — you let him wander, you 
cared not whither ! Still the thought that oppressed your soul was the fu- 
ture of your country. Still great hopes — dim visions of what is to come — 
floating panoramas of batde and armed legions — darted one by one over 
your soul. Even as you stood on the threshold of j-onder door, asking, in 
calm tones, the way through the forest, another and a deeper question rose 
to your lips " 

"I confess it!" said the Stranger, his tone catcliing the deep emotion of 
the old man's voice. " As I stood upon the threshold, the question that 
rose to my lips was — 

" Is it lawful for a subject to draw sword against his King ?" 

" Man ! You read the heart !" and this strange man of commanding 



96 THE WISSAHIKON. 

form and thoughtful brow, gazed fixedly in the eyes of the Enthusiast, 
while his face expressed every conflicting emotion of doubt, suspicion, sur- 
prise and awe. 

" Nay, do not gaze upon me in such wonder ! I tell thee a great work 
has been allotted unto thee, by the Fathkr of all souls ! Kneel by this 
altar — and here, in the silence of night, amid the depths of these wild woods 
— will I anoint thee Deliverer of this great land, even as the men of Judah, 
in the far-jjone time, anointed the brows of the chosen David !" 

It may have been a sudden impulse, or perchance, some conviction of the 

future flashed over the Stranger's soul, but as the gloom of that chamber 

gathered round him, as the voice of the old man thrilled in his ear, he felt 

those knees, which never yielded to man, sink beneath him, he bowed be- 

- fore the altar, his brow bared, and his hands laid upon the Book of God. 

The light flashed over his bold features, glowing with the beauty of man- 
hood in its prime, over his proud form, dilating with a feeling of inexpressi- 
ble agitation. 

On one side of the altar stood the old man — the Priest of the Wissahikon 
— his silver hair waving aside from his flushed brow — on the other, his son, 
bronzed in face, but thouiihlful in the steady gaze of his large full eyes. 

Around this strange group all was gloom : the cold wintry air poured 
through the open door, but they heeded it not. 

" Thou art called to the great work of a Champion and Deliverer ! 
Soon thou wilt ride to balde at the head of legions — soon thou wilt lead a 
people on to freedom — soon thy sword will gleam like a meteor over the 
ranks of war !" 

As the voice of the old man in the dark rolie, with the silver cross flash- 
ing on his heart, thrills through the chamlier — as the Stranger bows his 
head as if in reverence, while the dark-browed son looks silendy on — look 
yonder, in the dark shadows of the doorway ! 

A young form, with a dark mantle floating round her while robes, stands 
trembling there. As you look, her blue eye dilates with fear, her hair 
streams in a golden shower, down to the uncovered shoulders. Her finger 
is pressed against her lip ; she stands doubting, fearing, trembling on the 
threshold. 

Unseen by all, she fears that her father may work harm to the kneeling 
Stranger. What knows she of his wild dreams of enthusiasm ? The 
picture which she beholds terrifies her. This small and gloomy chamber, 
lighted by the white candles — the altar rising in the gloom — the Iron Cross 
confronting the kneeling man, like a thing of evil omen — her brother, mute 
and wondering — her father, with white hairs floating aside from his flushed 
forehead. The picture was singular and impressive : the winter wind, 
moaning sullenly without, imparted a sad and organ-like music to the scene. 

" Dost thou promise, that when the appointed time arrives, thou wilt bo 
found ready, sword in hand, to fight for thy country and thy God ?" 



THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 97 

It was in tones broken by emotion, tliat the Stranger simply answered — 
« I do !" 

" Dost thou promise, in the hour of thy glory — when a nation shall bow 
before thee — as in the fierce moment of adversity, — when thou shalt be- 
hold thy soldiers starving for want of bread — to remember the great truth, 
written in these words — ' / am but the Minister of God in the great work 
of a nation's freedom.' " 

Again the bowed head, again the tremulous — " 1 do promise !" 

" Then, in His name, who gave the New World to the millions of the 
human race, as the last altar of their rights, I do consecrate thee its — 
Deliverer !" 

Wiih the finger of his extended hand, touclied wilh the anointing oil, he 
described the figure of a Cross on the white forehead of the Stranger, who 
raised his eyes, while his lips murmured as if in prayer. 

Never was nobler King anointed beneath the shadow of Cathedral arch 
— never did holier Priest administer the solemn vow ! A poor Cathedral, 
this rude Block House of the Wissahikon — a plainly-clad gentleman, this 
kneeling Stranger — a wild Enthusiast, the old man I I grant it all. And 
yet, had you seen the Enthusiasm of the white-haired Minister, refiected in 
the Stranger's brow, and cheek, and eyes, had you marked the contrast be- 
tween the shrunken form of the " Priest," and the proud figure of the 
Anointed, — both quivering with the same agitation, — you would confess 
with me, that this Consecration was full as holy, in the sight of Heaven, as 
that of " Good King George." 

And all the while that young man stood gazing on the stranger in silent 
awe, while the girl, trembling on the threshold, a warm glow lightens up 
her face, as she beheld the scene. 

" When the time comes, go forth to victory ! On thy brow, no con- 
queror's blood-red wreath, but tiiis crown of fadeless laurel !" 

He extends his hand, as if to wreath the Stranger's brow, with the leafy 
crown — yet look ! A young form steals up to his side, seizes the crown 
from his hand, and, ere you can look again, it falls upon the bared brow of 
the kneeling man. 

He looks up and beholds that young girl, with the dark mantle gathered 
over her white robes, stand blushing and trembling before the altar, as 
though frightened at the boldness of the deed. 

" It is well !" said the aged man, regarding his daughter wilh a kindly- 
smile. " From whom should the Deliverer of a Nation receive his crown 
of laurel, but from the hands of a stainless woman !" 

" Rise ! The Champion and Leader of a People !" spoke the deep voice 
of the son, as he^stood before the altar, surveying, widi one glance, the face 
of his father — the countenance of the blushing girl, and the bowed head of 
the Stranger. "Rise, sir, and take this hand, which was never yet given 



08 THK WISSAIIIKON. 

to man ! I know not thy name, yet, un this book, I swear to be ruithrul to 
thee, even to the dealli !" 

Tlie Stranger rose, proudly ho stood there, as willi the consciousness of 
his roMiiuandinif look and lorjn. 'riie laurel-wrcalli eni'irc-k'd his white 
loreiu-ad ; die cross, rurined by the aiuiiiilinif oil, glistened in the light. 

Paul, the son, buckled a sword to ids t-iilo ; the old man extended his 
hands as if in blcssin<;', wbiU; the youri;;- {^irl looked up silently into ids face. 

They all beluld tht? form of this slranijc man shake wiih emoiioii ; while 
that face, whose calm beauty had won lluir hearts, now (juivered in every 
fibre. 

'I'hc wind nuiai\cd sadly over the frozen snow, yet these words, uttered 
by the stranger, were hearil distinctly by all — 

" From you, old man, 1 take the vow ! From yon, fair girl, the laurel ! 
From you, brave friend, the sword ! On this book 1 swear to be faithful 
unto all !" 

And as the liiiht llashed over his (juivering tcaturcs, he laid his hand upon 
tlie Book and kissed the hilt of the sword. 



Years passed. 

The memory of that New Year's night of 1771, perchance, had passed 
with years, and lost all place in the memory of living being. 

America was a nation — Washington was President. 

Through llie intervals of the trees shine the beams of the declining sun, 
but the Block-House was a mass of rnins. Burned one night by the British, 
in the darkest hour of the war, its blackened timbers were yet encircled by 
green leaves. 

Still tho smiling summer snn shone over the soft sward and among the 
thickly clustered trees of Wissahikon. 

But Father — Son — Uaughier — where are they ? 

Yonder, a square enclosure of stone shuts three green mounds out from 
the world. 

The sad story of their lives may not be told in few words. The terrors 
of that night when the Ulock-House was fired, and — but we must not speak, 
of it ! All w(^ can say is — look yonder, and behold their graves I 

Ilark ! The sound of horses' ho<d's! A man of noble presence appears, 
guiding his gallant grey sleed, along the winding road. He dismounts; the 
liorse wanders idly over the sod, cropping the fragrant wild grass. 

This man of noble presence, dressed in plain black velvet, with a star 
gleamins: on his breast, with a face, niagtiilicent in its wrinkled age, as it was 
beautiful in its chivalrie manhood — this man of noble presence, before whom 
kings may stand uncovered, approaches the ruin of the Blocl^-ll(Ul^e. 

Do you see his eve light up again with youthful fire, his lip quiver witK 
an agitation deeper than ballle-rage '. 



Tiri', MlDNinilT DKATir. 9!) 

There he slands, wliilo lUi'. long shiulovvs of the trees (larken nir over the 
swiml— llierc, while llio twlliglit deepens into night, gazing with a heaving 
cliosl anil qnivcring lip, upon the l{uins of the old l!loek-l louse. 

I'erehanee he thinks of the dead, or it may he his ihouglus are with 
scenes o( the Past — pKreiiaucc, even now, a strange picture rises hcrnii^ liini ! 

— That picture a darkened chaniher, with a white altar rising in ils cen- 
tre, while an old man, and his hrave son, anil virgin danghter, all gather 
ronnd a warrior lorni, liailiiig hlin with one voice — 
"TIIK DEMVEKER."* 



II.— TiiK HiDNK.'iir i)i:\'rii. 

Lkt mc ttdl yon a Icgi'nd of llu' Ifi.'vohitiou — a legend that even now 
makes my hlooil run cold to Ihiuk upon. 

Yon all have seen the massive rock that projects out into the roadsiilo 
near the Red Uridge. Yon have seen the level space, that spreads IVoin 
this rock to that ancient hultonwood Irco. ; yon have seen that cluster of 
mills, and cottages and hams, nestling there, in the emhracc of the wild 
Wissahikon, with the dark rocks and the dark(M- trees frowning far aliove. 

It was here along this open space — aliout the tiuu: of the Batde of Ger- 
mantown — it was here, at dead of night, when the moon was shining down 
through a wilderness of floating clouds, that there came an old man and his 
tour sons, all armed with rillc, powder-horn and knife. 

Thcv came stealing down that roi-k — tln^y stood in the centre of that 
level space — a |)assing ray of moonlight shone over the tall form of tliat old 
man, with his long white hairs Hoating on the hree;sc — over the manly 
figures of his sons. 

And why came that old farmer from the woods at dead of niijhl, stealing 
toward the Wissahikon, with his four tail sous around him, armed with rille 
and with knife ? 

To-night there is a meeting at yon lonely ho\isc far up the Wissahikon 



* Note nv tiir Auriton — Tn iliia TiCgf nd. f linve cndoiivoretl tn cDmprpss nn n'rl-timo 
Irndiiioii of iho VVi.ssuliikon, which, rcdiuiHl wiih JMslic(! lo nil its ilcliiiU. vvmihl fill a 
volume. Tlinri' is nn spni in Ihi^ liuitl — noi even iiri llio tstDriod hilfs nf ihe Siiiilee, nr 
iho bciiiiiiliil vviUls of ihii Koiiiilico — morn liMllowi'd of poiMiy and rninnncc, ihjin diia 
snmo Wissniiikoii, which, iiii:iiii;ihli! Iiy hiiH' lui hoar'.'^ jniiriK y rriim the aiv. ycl prn- 
servea ils ruiiKi^d fjrandoiir of rock, and sin'rim. iind irci'; nnil is lo-iliiy whut ii was 
two liundrod yc'urs nsjo. Il svas \\v.ri: Ihiii ihn I'roiosianI Mciid;s nndc ihcir hr)nio, 
more tliana hniiJred ycMua gone hy ; hen\ driven from ihcir I'uiher-hind, hy ilie uni- 
lod persocniion.s of Pi-oiealiint nnii Ciuholie, llicy reared iheir Monn.siery. iind wor- 
shipped (Jod, in llio deep ailonco of prinuwal I'orosisi, Tlie niii)) who sneei-.H al iho 
first .telllcra of I'ennsylviinin, terming thein in rierision. (na lillle minds nn: wont,) 
tho " iffHorniU Oermnns," olc. ele., sliould come here lo ihc wilds of VVissidiikon, and 
learn someihin;,' of iho pliiloaopliy, llie rulif,'ion, iind tohirnlion of iheso Cermiin colo- 
nists. The fiei^'CTuI will he more eluiirlv iiudorslood when it is known ihiil llie belief 
wns preval(Mit nmiiii,' ihcso Pielials of iho "Cnming nf a dreat Man," who was 10 
appear in the wildoniosa, in fulfilment of a Prophecy in the 15ook of Revclmions. 



100 THE WISSAIHKON. 

— n mciMinij (if nil the farmers of Gennaiitown, who wish to join tlio army 
of Mister WasliiiijriDn, now hiding away in tile wilds of ihc SliippacU. 

'J'lio old firmer and his children go to join that meeting. Old as he is, 
there is yet liery liliiod in his veins — old as he is, lie will yet strike a hlow 
for Geor<;e Wasliinj;toii. 

Suddenly he turns — he llings the hlaze of a lantern full in the faces of 
his sons. 

" You are all here, my cliiKlreii." he said, "and yet not all." A gleam 
of deep sorrow shot from the ealm blue eye. 

In that moment he remembered that missing son — his youngest boy with 
those laughing locks of golden hair, with that eye of summer blue. 

One year ago from this night that youth, George Derwent, had disap- 
peartul — no one knew whither. 'J'here was a deep mystery about it all. 
It was true that this young man, at the lime of his disajipearaiice, was be- 
trothed to a beautiful girl— an or|ilian child — who had been reared in the 
family of an old Tory down the Wissahikon, an old Tory named Isaac 
Warden, who was in the pay of the British. It was true that there was 
some strange connection between this Tory and young Derwent; yet old 
Michael his father, had heard no tidings of liis son for a year — there was a 
dark mystery about the whole alTair. 

And while the old man stood there, surveying the faces of his sons, there 
came stealing along the narrow road, from the shadows of the cottage and 
mill, the form of a vouiig and beautiful girl, with a dark maiiile thrown 
loosely over her white dress, with her long black hair waving in free tresses 
about her shoulders. 

It was Ellen, the betrothed of George Derwent, who had now been miss- 
ing from the wilds of Wissahikon for a year. 

And why comes this orphan girl, with her full dark eye, with her long 
hlack hair waving on the breeze, with her lovely form veiled in a loose 
mantle ? Why came she hither so lonely at dead of night ! 

This night, one year ago, George Derwent bade her good-bye under the 
shade of that buttonwood tree — told her that some dark mysterious cause 
would lead him from the valley for a year — and then, pressing the last 
good-bye on her lips, swore to meet her under this same tree, after the 
lapse of a year, at this very hour. 

And now she comes to meet her lover — and now she comes to keep 
her tryst. 

And the moon, beaming from the parted clouds, fell over her form, as she 
came in all her beauty toward that buttonwood tree, looking for all (he 
world like the spirit of that lonely dell. 

With a muttered shriek she beheld old Michael standing there. Then, 
rushing forward, she seized his withered hand, and bade him beware of the 
lonely house of the Wissahikon, 

That night, at the old Tory's house, she had overheard the plot of som* 



THK MIDNIGHT DEATH. 101 

Briliih troopers to surprise the meeting of the patriot farmers — to surprise 
tlicni ami (Tusli them at a blow. 

Even as slie s|)()kc, grasping tliat old man's witliprr'd hand, there to the 
south, was iicard tiie tramp of steeds. Already the IJrilish troopers eame 
on to the work of massacre. 

A cloud passed over the moon — it was dark — in a moment it was light 
ngalii. 

Tiiat level space between the rock and the tree was vacant — the maiden 
was gone into the shade of the forest trees — and there on that bold rock, 
half hidden by the thick foliage, there stood Michael Derwent and his four 
sons, waitiiig for the assassin-band. 

Hark ! 'J'he tramp of steeds ! Near — and near and nearer yet it grows ! 

Jjook ! 'I'hcy emerge from the shadow oi' the mill, ten Mrilish troopers, 
mounted on stout steeds, with massy cap upon each brow, pistols in each 
holster, swords by each side. 

For a moment the moon shone over their glittering array, and then all is 
dark. Hark to that old man's whisper — 

" My boys, do you see them liritishers ? Mark each one of you his 
man ; and when they cross the line between this rock and that Buttonwood 
tree — then fire !" 

And they came on. 

The captain of the band waved his sword boaslingly in the air. 

In a moment, he cried, we will be — in the midst of the rebels — he would 
liave said ; but the words died on his lips. 

He fell from his sU'ed — with a horrid curse he fell — he was dead ! 

Did you see that Hash from the trees ? Did you hear that shout of old 
Michael ? Did you hear the crack of the rides ? 

Look, as the smoke goes up to Heaven — look, as the moon shines out 
from a cloud ! 

Where, a moment ago, were ten bold troopers riding forward at their 
case, now are but six. There are four dead men upon the ground — yonder 
throuf;h the Wissahikon dash four riderless steeds. 

With a wild yell the si,\ troopers spur iheir horses to the fatal rock — they 
rear their hoofs against its breast — there is a moment of murder and death. 

Look ! That trooper with the slouching hat — the dark plume drooping 
over his brow — he breasts bis steed against the rock — that jet black horse 
flings his hoof high against the llmty barrier. While tlie moon bides her 
face behind that cloud, that troojjcr with the plume drooping over his brow, 
leans over the neck of his steed — he seizes old Michael by the throat, he 
drags him from the rock, he spurs his horse toward the stream, and that old 
man hangs there, quivering at the saddle-bow. 

Then it was that old Michael made a bold struggle for his life. He drew 
his hunting knife from his belt — he raised it in the darkened air; but look — 
the trooper snatches it from his grasp. 

U 



102 THE WISSAHIKON. 

" Die, Rebel !"' lin slimits. IJending over Iiis steed, he strikes it deep 
into the old man's neck down to his lieart. 

Then the moon siione out. Then, as tlic old man fell, the moon shciiie 
over Ids face, convulsed in death, over his glaring eyes, over his long white 
hair, dahliled in blood. 

lie fell with the knife slicking in his throat. 

Then the trooper slowly dismounted from his steed — he kneels beside 
the corse — his lonj^ dark phime falls over the face of the dead man. 

And there he kneels, while the people of the valley, aronsed by tho 
sound of conflict, come hastening on with torches — there, while that other 
band of British troopers, sweeping from the north, surprise the lonely liouse 
of the Wissahikon, and come over the stream with their prisoner in their 
grasp — there while the sons of Michael Derwent — there are only two now 
— stood pinioned beside the corse of their father, there kneels thai trooper, 
with his long pinme drooping over the dead man's face. 

Look — that old man with those hawk-like eyes, the sharp nose and thin 
lips — that is the old Tory, Isaac Warden. 

Look — that fair girl, stealing from the shade of that tree it is Ellen, the 
orphan girl, the betrothed of the missing George Derw^ent. 

Look ! 'I'he trees toweriiiij above are reddened by the light of torches. 
Ilark — the Wissahikon rolls murmuringly on — slill that trooper kneels 
there, bending down with that long dark plnmc drooping over the dead 
man's face. 

A strange shudder — an unknown fear thrills through the hearts of all 
around. No one dared to arouse the kneeling man. 

At last that burly trooper advances — he lays his hand upon the shoulder 
of the kneeling man — he bids him look up. And he docs look up ! 

Ah, what a shudder ran through the group — ah, what a groan was heard 
from the white lips of those two sons of Michael Derwent ! Even that 
British captain starts back in horror of that face. 

'I'he trooper looked up — the light shone upon a young face with \\"ht 
blue eyes, and locks of golden hair waving all around it, — but there was a 
horror written on that face, worse than dealli, a horror like that which 
stamps the face of a soul forever lost. 

It was the face of George Derwent— he knelt beside the dead body of 
his father — with that knife sticking in his throat. 

For a moment there was an awful silence. The Parricide slowly rose, 
turned his face from the dead, and folded liis arms. 

Then a light footstep broke the deep silence of this scene — a fair Ibrm 
came sofily through the crowd — it was Ellen, the Orplian Girl. 

" George — George, I see you once more. You are come," she cried, in 
her wild joy, rushing to his arms. But the cry of joy died away in a 
groan of horror. She beheld that awful face — one of her dark tresses swept 
his clenched right hand. That hand was wet with blood. 



THE MIDNIGHT DEATH. 103 

TliRn like a crushed reed, she cowered back upon the ground. Her 
lover spoke not, but he slowly raised that blood-red hand in the lij;ht, and 
then — he pointed to the corse of Michael Derwent, with the reeking knife 
standing out from the gash along the throat. 

Then the full horror of tbat liour burst upon the maiden's heart. Then 
she slowly rose, then she laid her quivering hand upon the arm of that 
hoary Trailor — Isaac Warden. 

" 01(1 man !" she whispered, in tiiat low deep tone that came from her 
bursting heart. 

" It is now one year since you told George Derwent that lie could not 
win my hand — the hand of your son's child — unless he engaged in your 
service as a liritish spy, (this night, and this night only did I learn the 
mystery of that foul bargain.) For one year you have reaped the gains of 
his degradation — and now, after that year is past, he, George Derwent, who 
loved your son's daughter, witii as true a love as ever throbbed beneath tne 
blue iieavens — he returns to reap liis harvest, and — oh, God — behold that 
harvest !" 

And with her dark eyes starting from their sockets, shev^binteil to the 
ghastly son, and the dead father. Then in low, deep tones, a e«i*'e tl'cmbled 
from her wliile lips — the orphan's curse upon that hoary trajtor. ; And he 
trembled. Yes, grown grey in guilt, he trembled, for there is ioniething s-o 
dark, so dread in that curse of a wronged orphan, as it quivers up there, 
that metliinks the angels around the Throne of God turn pate'snd weep at 
tlie sound. 

And then wliile this scene froze the bystanders with awe,,(5e9.rge Der- 
went slowly opened his vest — he unstrung a chain of s!en<ler;gpld,ffpm his 
neck, he took the locket from the place where it had hungStfeirfthe.year ; 
moved by each throbbing of his heart — he gave it to the niaid^ti. ^ '.' . 

He then pointed to her form — and then to Heaven. To Kia o'w'4l*^and 
then downward. That gesture spoke volumes. 
" You to Heaven — T — there." 

Then with that blood-stained hand he tore the British Lion froir his 
breast — he trampled it under foot. Tben gathering the strength of hiS 
strong arm for the effort, h^ tore that British uniform — that scarlet tainted 
uniform — from his manly chest — he rent it into rags. 

Then without a word, he mounted his steed — he rode toward the stream 
— he turned that ghastly face over his shoulder. 
"Ellen! ' he shrieked, and then lie was gone. 

" Ellen !" he shrieked, and then there was the sound of a steed dashing 
through the water, crashing through the woods. 

Then a shriek so wild, so dread, rang on the air — still the Parricide 
thundered on. 

Not more than a quarter of a mile from the scene of this legend, there is 
a steep rock, rising one hundred feet above the dark waters of the Wissahi- 



104 THE WISSAHIKON. y 

koii — risina; with a robe of ijnarleJ pines all about it, rising like a huge 
wreck of some primeval worKi. 

The Parricide thundered on and on — at last his steed tottered on tiie 
verge of liiis rock. 

For a moment the noble horse refused to take the leap. 

But there, there is a dark mist before the eyes of the Parricide — there 
was the ligure of an old man — not a phantom ; ah, no ! ah, no ! It was loo 
real for tiial — there was the ligiire of an old man, that knife protruding from 
the fatal wound, that while hair waving in dribbled blood. 

And there was a crasii — then an awful pause — then far, far down the 
dell the yell of the dying horse and his rider mingled in one, and went 
quivering up to God. 

Ill— THE DIDI.E LEGEND OF THE WISSAHIKON. 

It was here in these wilds of tlie AVissahikon, on the day of the battle, 
as the noinulay sun came shining through the thickly clustered leaves, that 
two mePiJB^iirdeadly combat. They grappled in deadly conflict near a 
rock, that reset-rlikc the huge wreck of some primeval world — at least one 
hundred feat above the dark waters of the Wissaliikon. 

Tliat nKiij'wiitli the dark brow, and the darker grey eye, flashing, with 
deadly kjjhl,twitli the muscular form, clad in the blue hunting frock of the 
Ro\ nliiijorl,,i8a ('ontin(?nlnl named Warner. His brother was murdered 
tlir oilier iiighl ;it the Massacre of Paoli. That other man, with long black 
liair. I Iroopinjr filing his cadaverous face, is clad in the half-military costume 
of a Tory TcTugie. That is the murderer of Paoli, named Dabney. 

Tli^" ha<l ui> I there in tlie woods by accident, and now they fought, not 
villi awdnl oiirnlle, but with long and deadly hunting knives, that flash in 
tile liJjht.ns ;hf \ go turning and twining and twisting over tiie green sward. 

Ai 1 i,i> lory was down! Down on the green sward wilii the knee 
of the Continental upon his breast — that upraised knife quivering in the 
light, .'iiat dark grey eye flashing death into his face! 

"Quarter — I yield!" gasped the Tory, as the knee was pressed upon 
liis breast — "Spare me--I yield !" 

" .My brother !" said the Patriot soldier, in that low deep tone of deadly 
liate — " My brother cried for 'quarter' on the night of Paoli, and, even as 
Jie clung to your knees, you struck that knife into his heart ! Oh ! I will 
give you the quarter of Paoli !" 

And his hand was raised for the blow, and his teeth were clenched in 
deadly hale, lie paused for a moment, and then pinioned the Tory's arms, 
and with one rapid stride dragged him to the verge of the rock, and held 
liim quivering over the abyss. 

" Mercy !" gasped the Tory, turning black and ashy by turns, as that 
awful gulf yawned below. " Mercy ! 1 have a wife — a child — spare me !" 



THE BIBLE LEGEND OF THE WISSAHIKON. 105 

Then llic Conlinental, with his muscular strenglli gathered for the effort, 
shooii the murderer onee more over the abyss, and then hissed tiiis hitter 
sneer between iiis teeth : 

" My brother had a wife and two children ! — The morning after tiic night 
of Paoli, that wife was a widow, those children were orphans ! — Wouldn't 
you like to go and beg your life of that widow and her children?" 

This proposal, made by the Continental in the mere mockery of hate, 
was taken in serious earnest by the horror-stricken Tory. He begged to 
be taken to the widow and her children, to have the pitilld privilege of beg- 
ging his life. After a moment's serious tUought, the patriot soldier con- 
sented ; he bound the Tory's arms yet tighter; placed him on the rock 
again — led liiin up to the woods. — A c^uiot cottage, embosomed among trees, 
broke on iheir eyes. 

Tiiey ejitered that cottage. There, beside the desolate hearth-stone, sat 
tlie widow and her children. She sat there a matronly woman of thirty 
years, with a face faded by care, a deep dark eye, and long black hair hang- 
ing in dishevelled flakes about her shoulders. 

On one side was a dark-haired boy, of some six years — on tlie other a 
little girl, one year younger, with light hair and blue eyes. The Bible — an 
old and venerable volume — lay open on that mother's knee. 

And then that pale-faced 'J'ory flung himself upon his knees, confessed 
that he had butchered her husband on the ni"ht of I'aoli, but beiwed his life 
at her hands ! 

" Spare me, for the sake of iny wife, my child !" 

He had expected that his pitiful moan would touch the widow's heart — 
but not one relenting gleam softened her pale fice. 

" The Lord shall judge between us !" she said in a cold icy tone, that 
froze the murderer's heart. — " Look ! The Uible lays open upon my knee. I 
will close that volume, and then this boy shall open it, and place his finger 
at random upon a line, and by that line you shall live or die !" 

This was a strange proposal, made in full faith of a wild and dark super- 
stition of ihe olden time. 

For a moment the Tory kneeling there, livid as ashes, was wrapt in 
thought. Then in a faltering voice, he signilied his consent. 

Raising her dark eyes to Heaven, the mother prayed the Great Father 
to direct the finger of her son — she closed the Bible — she handed it to that 
boy, whose young check reddened with loathing as he gazed upon his 
father's murderer ! 

He took the Bible — opened its holy pages at random — placed his finger 
on a verse. 

Then there was silence ! 

Then that Continental soldier, who had sworn to avenge his brother's 
death, stood there with dilating eyes and parted lips. 



100 Till', WIS.SAIIIKON. 

'i'lion the culprit kiicfiing on llic floor, wiili a face like discolored clay, 
felt his heart leap to his throat. 

Then in a dear, holil voice, the widow read tliis line from the Old Testa- 
ment ; — it was sliorl, yet terrible: 

" That man shall diic !" 

Look '. The brother springs forward to plunge a knife into the murder- 
er's heart, but the 'J'ory, pinioned as he is, clings to the widow's knees ! 
lie begs that one more trial may be made by the little girl, that child of live 
years, with golden hair and laughing eyes. 

The widow consents ; therms an awful pause. 

Willi a smile in her eye, without knowing what she does, that little girl 
opens the IJible as it lays on her mother's knee — she turns her laughing face 
away — she places her finger upon a line. 

That awful silence grows deeper! 

The deep-drawn breath of the brother, the broken gasps of the murderer, 
alone disturb the silence. — The widow and dark-eyed boy are breathless. 

That l.ltle girl, unconscious as she was, caught a feeling of awe from the 
horror of llie countenances around her, and stood breathless, her face turned 
aside, her tiny lingers resting on that line of life or death. 

At last gathering courage, the widow bent her eyes to the page, and read. 
It was a line from the New Testament. 

" LOVK YOrU KMCJIIKS." 

Ah! that moiU'Mit was sublimj;! 

Oh ! awful Itook of (!od, in whose dread pages we sec Job talking face 
to face with Jehovah, or Jesus waiting by Samaria's well, or wandering by 
the waves of dark (iahlce. Oh ! awful Book, shining to-jiighl, as 1 speak, 
the light of that widow's home, the glory of that mechanic's shop, shining 
where the world comes not, to look on the last night of the convict in his 
cell, lightening the way to Ciod, even over that dread gibbet. Oh ! book 
of terrible majeslj' and child-like love, of sublimity that crushes the soul into 
awe, of beauty iliat melts the heart with rapture : — you never shone more 
strangely beautiful than there, in the lonely cot of the Wissalukon, when 
you saved that murderer's life ! 

Tor — need 1 tell you — llial murderer's life was saved I That widow recog- 
nised the linger of God — even the stern brother was awed into silence. 

The murderer went his wav. 

Now look ye, how wonderful are the ways of Heaven ! 

That very night, as the widow sate by her lonely hearth — her orphans 
hy her side — sale there with crushed heart and hot eye-balls, thinking of 
her husband, who now lay mouldering on the blood-drenched sod of I'aoli 
— ihcre was a tap at the door. 

She opened the door, and — that husband living, though covered with 
many wounds, was in her arms ! 



m^ 



THE TEMPTATION OF WASHINGTON. 107 

He liad fallen at Paoli — but nut in dcalli. lie was^alive; liis wife lay 
paiuinjr on Ills breast. 

'riiat nii'hl there was prayer in that wood-embowered Cot of the Wissa- 
liikon ! V/ 

^ IV.— TlIi: TUMI'TATION OK WASIIINGTOM. 

TiiicKE are days in winter wlien the air is very soft and balmy as the 
early days of summer, wlien, in fict, that glad maiden May seems to blow 
lier warm breath in the grim face of February, until the rough old warrior 
laughs again. vjr 

It was a day like this that the morning Sunshine was streaming over a 
high rock, that frowns there, far above the Wissahikon. 

A iiigh rock' — attainable only by a long, winding path — fenced in by tlie 
trunks of giant pines, whose boughs, on the coldest day of winter, form ii 
canopy overhead. 

This rock is covered with a carjict of evergreen moss. 

And near this nook — this chamlier in the forest, for it was nothing less — 
sate an old man, separated from it by the trunks of the pines, whose boughs 
concealed his form. 

That old man had come here, alone, to thiidi over his two sons, now 

freezing at Valley Forge for, though the father was a Tory, yet his 

children were Continentals. He was a well-meaning man, but some half- 
crazy idea about liie Divine llight of the liritish Pope, George the Third, 
to rule this tJoiitincnl, and murder and burn as he pleased — lurked in his 
brain, and kept him back from the camp of Washington. 

And now, in this bright moriung in February, he had come here, alone, to 
think the matter over. 

And while he was pondering this deep matter over, whether George the 
Pope or George the Rebel was in the right — lie heard the tramp of a war- 
steed not far ofl", and, looking between the trunks of the pines, he saw a 
man, of noble presence, dismount from his grey horse, and then advance 
into the quiet nook of moss-carpeted rocks, encircled by giant pines. 

— And now, leaving that aged Tory, to look upon this man for hiiiiself, 
let us also look on him, with our own eyes. 

As he conies through those tliick boughs, you behold a man, more than 
six feet high, with his kingly form enveloi)cd in a coarse grey overcoat; a 
chapeau on his bold I'orehead — and beneath the skirts of that grey coat, you 
may see the military boots and the end of a scabbard. 

And who is this man of kingly presence, who comes here alone, to pace 
this moss-covered rock, with drooped head and folded arms ? 

Come, my friends, and look upon him — let me show you — not this figure 
of mist and frost-work, which some historians have called Washinoton — 
but Washington, the living, throbbing, ilush and blood, AVashington ! — Yes, 
Wasih.nuton the man. 



108 TII£ WI.S.SAHIKON. 

Look upon him, as he paces iliat moss-covereil rock — see that eye burn, 
that muscular cliesl heave under the folded arms. 

Ah, ho is ihiuking of Valley Forge ! Of the bloody fool-priiils in tlie 
snow — of those three hideous tigures that sit down in the huts of Valley 
Forge together — Disease, Starvation, and Nakedness ! 

Look, as those dark thoughts crowd on his soul, he fdls on Ids knees, he 
prays the (Jod of Ilcamffc lake his life, as an oll'ering for the freedom of 
his native land ! 

And as that prayer startles the slill woods, that grey coat falls open, and 
discloses the blue and gold ui|i^rin — the epaulette and the sworil-hilt. 

Then the agony of that mail, praying there in the silent woods — praying 
for his country, now bleeding in her chains — speaks out, in the Hashing of 
the eye, in the beaded sweat, dripping from the brow ! 

— Ah, kings of the world, ])lanning so cooly your schemes of murder, 
come here, and look at Clcorge Washington, as he oilers his life, a sacrifice, 
for his country ! 

Ah, George of England, British Pope, and good-natured Idiot, that you 
are, now eountiiig, in your royal halls how many more men it will take to 
murder a few thousand peaceful farmers, and make a nation drink your tea, 
come here to this rock of the Wissahikon, and see. King and Pope as you 
are, George Washington in council wiih his God ! 

My friends, 1 can never think of that man in the wilds of Wissahikon — 
praying there, alone ; praying for his country, with the deep agony in his 
heart and on his brow, without also thinking of that dark night in Gethse- 
niane, when tlie blood-drops slarlled from the brow of JfSlis, the Blessed 
Kedeemcr, as he plead for the salvation of the world ! » 

Now look ! As Washington kneels there, on that moss-eovered rock, 
from those green boughs steps forth another form — tall as his own — clad in 
a coarse grey coal, with the boots and scabbard seen below its skirts, with 
ihe chapeau upon his brow. 

That stranger emerges from the boughs — stands there unperceived, gazing 
in silence upon the kneeling warrior. 

A moment passes ! 

Look ! Washington has risen to his feet — he confronts the stranger. 

Now, as that stranger, with a slight bow, uncovers his forehead, tell me, 
did you ever see a stronger or stranger resemblance between two men than 
between these two, who now confront each other in silence, under the shade 
of those dark pines ? 

The same hcighth, breadth of chest, sinewy limbs, nay, almost the same 
faces, — save that the face of the stranger, sharper in oulline, lacks ihal calm 
consciousness of a great soul, which stamps the countenance of Washington. 

That resemblance is most strange — their muscular forms are clad in the 
same coarse grey coat — their eoslume is alike — yet hold 

The stranger throws open his overcoat — you behold that hangman's 



THE TEAIPTATION OF WASHINGTON. 109 

dress, that Brilisli uniform, flashing with gold and stars ! Washington starts 
back, and lays his hand upon his sword. 

And as these two men, so strangely alike, meet there hy accident, nnder 
that canopy of boughs, — one watulering from Valley Forge, one from I'hila- 
deiphia — let me tell yon at once, that the stranger is none other than the 
Master Butcher of the Idiot-king — Sir AVilliam Howe. 

Yes, there they meet, the 9iu*>^e-iittf<BB«nation of Freedom — the other 
the tinselled lacquey of a 'I'yrant's Will ! 

We will listen to their eggliersation : it is brief, hut important. 

For a moment, the British General stu«L spell-bound before the man 
whom he had crossed the ocean td, entrapJU^tt-ing home ; the Rebel, who 
had lifted his hand against the Riglit Divine of the British Pope! To that 
British General there was something awful about the soldier who could talk 
witli his God, as Wasliington had talked a moment ago. 

"I cannot be mistaken," at last said Sir William Howe; "1 behold be- 
fore me the chieftain of the Rebel army. Mister Washington ?" 

Washington coldly bowed his head. 

"Then this is a happy hour! Fur we together can give peace and free- 
dom to this land !" 

At this word Washington started with surprise — advanced a step — and 
then exclaimed — 

"And' who, sir, are you that thus boldly promise peace and freedotn to 
my country ?" 

" The commander of his Majesty's forces in America !" said Howe, ad- 
vancing along that wood-hidden rock towards Washington. "And oh, sir, 
let me tell you ijiat the king, my master, has heard of your virtues, which 
alone dignities the revolt with the name of a war, and it is to you he looks 
for the termination of this most disastrous contest." 

Then 'Wasliington, whose pulse had never quickened before all the pano- 
ply of British arms, felt his heart flutter in his bosom, as that great boon was 
before his eyes — peace and freedom lo his native land ! 

" Yes," continued Howe, advancing another step, " my king looks to you 
for the termination of this unnatural war. Let rebellion once be crushed — 
let the royal name be finally established by your influences, and then, sir, 
behold the gratitude of King George to Mister Washington." 

As he spoke, he placed in the hands of Washington a massive parch- 
ment — sealed wilh the broad seal of England, signed with the manitpl of 
King George. 

Washington took the parchment — opened it — read — his face did not 
change a muscle. 

And yet that parchment named Mister George Washington " George 
Duke Washinov'on, of Modnt Vernon, our well-beloved servant. Viceroy 
of America !" 

Here was a boon for the Virginia planter — here was a title and here a 

12 



110 THE WISSAHIKON. 

power for the young man, who was one day struggling for his lil'o away 
there anticl lioating ice on the dark Allegheny river. 

l'\)r a moment, the face of Washington was buried in that parchment, 
and then, in a low, deep voice, he spokj^ 

" I have been tiiirdiing," ho said, !|mR|ic ten thousand brave men who 
have been niassaered in this quar|^|Pr have been thinking of the dead of 
Bunker Hill — Lexington — QuejjSlP^rrenlon — Yes, the dead of tjaratoga — 
Brandy wir.o — Gcrniantown— >r^" 

'■And," cried Howe, startling forwariLjIdM^pill put an end to this 
unhappy quarrel ?" 




" And your king," contiJH^^iMiP(in, with a look and tone that would 
have cut into a heart oD injrlile, '-.would have nie barter the bones of the 
dead for a ribbon arid a title !" 

And then — while Howe shrunk cowering back — that Virginia planter, 
Washington, crushed that parchment into the sod, with the heel of his war- 
rior boot Yes, trampled that title, that royal name, into one mass of 

rags and dust. 

"That is my answer to your king!" 

And then he stood with scorn on his brow, and in his eye, liis outstretched 
arm poinilng at that minion of King Cieorge. Jjip- 

Wasn't that a picture for the pencil of an angel? And now, that British 
General, recovering from his lirst surprise, grew red as liis uniform with 
rage. 

" Yonr head !" lie gasped, clenching his hand, "your head will yet red- 
den the Traitor's block !" 

Then Washington's hand sought his sword — then his fierce spirit awoke 
within him — it was his lirst impulse to strike that braggart quivering into 
the dust. 

But in a moment he grew calm. 

" Yours is a good and great king," he said, with his nsual stern tone- 
"At first he is determined to swec[) a whole Continent with but live thou- 
sand men, but he soon finds that his five thousand men must swell to twenty- 
five thousand before he can ever begin his work of murder. Then he 
sacrifices Ins own subjects by thousands — and butchers peaceful farmers by 
tens of thousands — and yet his march of victory is not even begun. Then, 
if he conquers the capital city of the Continent, victory is sure ! Behold ! 
the city is in his grasp, yet still the hosts of freedom defy him, even from 
the huts of Valley Forge ! 

"And now, as a last resource, your king comes to tlie man whose head 
yesterday was sought, with a high reward, to grace the gates of London — 
he olTers that Rebel a Dukeilom — a vice regal sceptre ! And yet iliat Rebel 
tramples the Dukedom into the dust — that Rebel crushes into atoms the 
name of such a king." 

Ah, never spaniel skulked from the kick of his master as that General 



WASHINGTON AS DUKE, KING AND REBEL. lU 

Howe cringtul away from llie presence of Washington — iiiouiileJ his horse 
— was gone ! 

One word wilh regard to the 'aged Tory, who beheld this scene from 
yonder bushes, witli alternate wonde£,^«dniiration, and fear. 

Tiiut Tory went home '• 1 have seen George Washington at prayer," 

he said to his wife: '-the man who can trample upon the name of a l;ing, 
as he did — pray to God as he prayed, tiiat man cannot be a liebul or a bad 
man. To-morrow, I will j^oifj^ .sons at Valley Forge !"* 

v.— WASHINGTON AS »rSE, Hl^^^ND REBEL. 



We have seen Washington a]id Howi stand face to face on the clilf of 
Wissahilcon ; we have seen the British General offer the American leader a 
ducal title, a vice-regal sway as the reward of treason. 

Now lot us behold four scenes which arise to our minds from the con- 
templation of this liBgend. These scenes are frauglit with a deep mystery, 
a sublime and holy moral. 

The first scene ! 

We stand in the streets of a magnificent city. A dense crowd darkens 
tlie avenues leading to yonder palace. That palace, which rises over the 
lieuds of the living mass, like a solitary mountain amid ocean waves. 

There are bands of armed men around that palace — look ! How the 
sun glitters over the red uniforms, over the lines of bayonets, over the 
thousand Hags, that wave in the summer air. 

And there, high over all, from the loftiest dome of that palace, one single 
broad banner tosses slowly and lazily upon the breeze — look, its wide 
shadow is cast upon the multitude below. That is the Red Cross Banner 
of England. 

And now every eye is fi.xed upon that palace door — a great potentate 
will shordy come forth — the mob are anxious to look upon him, to shout 
his name. 

And now, as the drums roll out their thunder, as the voice of cannon bids 
him welcome — he comes ! 



* This tradition, prevails not only among the rocli-bound cliffs of the WissahiUon, 
but amid the pasioral glades of Brandywine. A different version, states that the inci- 
dent occarred, in the darkest hour of the Battle of Brandywine, on a beautiful knoll, 
which arises from the bosom of tlie meadow, crowned with grand old trees. In this 
shape, I have incorporated it, in the pages of my novel — " Blanche of Brandywine." 
In the present work, I have given it, with the locality of the Wissahikon, and llio 
dark time of Valley Forge. Nothing is more common, in the history of the Revolu- 
tion, than to hear the same tradition, recited by five diU'ereni persons, with as many 
changes of lime and place. Even the precise spot, on which La Fayette, received his 
wound at Brandywine, is a matter of doubt. Two aged men pointed out to ine. in the 
course of n'.y pilgrimage over the field, two localities, for this incident, with the eni- 
pliaiic remark — " Here's where La Layette received his wound. IJe said so, him- 
Belf, when he visited the place in 1824." These localities, were only four mills 
apart. 



114 THE WISSAIHKON. 

Yes, as women press forwaril, lifting their babes on high, eager to be- 
hold liiiM ; as olil iiiiii cliiiil) those trees, mad with anxiety, lo catcli but one 
glimpse of his form, in; comes, the Viceroy of America ! 

Yes, from tliat palace door, environ^ by guards and courlicrs, fine gen- 
tlemen and gay ladies, he comes, {ftat man of kingly presence ; he stands 
tliere, for the moment, with the sun playing over his noble brow, glittering 
along iiis vice-regal robes. How the thunder of the cannon, the clang of 
drum and bugle, the hurralis of the mob, go mingling up lo Heaven in one 
mad chorus. And that great prince staiuiing, there under the shadow of the 
British baimer ; that is (ii^ML Duke Washington, Viceroy of America. 

Yes, that is what WjlH^on might have been, had he betrayed his 
country. 

Now we will change the scene : 

We stand in the aiite-chamber of the Brilish King. 

Here, in this lofty hall, adorned with trophies from all the world — tro- 
phies from plundered Ireland — from ravaged Hindoostan — from down-trod- 
den America — here, under that Red Cross Uaiiner, which like a canopy, 
reddens over that ceiling ; here are gathered a glittering parly of noble lords 
and ladies, an.xious to behold a strange scene ; the meeting between King 
George and Duke Washington, that man who yesterday was a rebel, but 
now having returned to his duty as a loyal subject, is about to be presented 
to his master. 

While all is suspense, two doors at opposite ends of that wide hall, are 
flung open by gentlemen ushers ; one announces "His Majesty !" 

And a decrepit maji with a vacant eye — a hanging lip — a gouty form, 
mocked with purple robes, hobbles slowly forth. 

That other gentleman in livery announces : — " His Grace, Washington, 
Duke of Mount Vernon, Viceroy of America !" 

And from that door comes a man of magniliccnt form, high bearing, 
kingly look. He is clad — oh, shame ! — in the scarlet uniform — his breast 
waving with ribbons and glittering with stars. 

And that noble man kneels in the centre of that crowd, kisses the gouty 
hand of that King. 'J'he good-humored idiot murmurs something about for- 
giving the rebel Washington, because that rebel has become a loyal subject, 
and brought back a nation to the feet of the British King. 

And there kneels Duke Washington, and there stands the Protestant 
Pope of Britain. 

— Had Washington acrepted the parchment from General Howe, some- 
thing like this scene would have been the presentation at Court. 

Or ehanire the scene again : 

What see you now ? Independence Hall transformed into a monarch's 
reception room, and there, surrounded by his courtiers, the crown on his 
brow, stands George the First, King of America. 

The glitter of arms llashes o'er Independence Square ; the huzzas of tlie 



WASHINGTON AS DUKE, KING AND REBEL. 113 

mob burst into the sky ; there is joy lo-day in Philadelphia — the aristocracy 
are glad — for George Washington, forsaking the fact of republican truth, has 
yielded to the wishes of servile friends, yielded to the huzzas of the mob, 
and while Independence Bell tolls the death of freedom, has taken to him- 
self a crown and a throne. 

So, my friends, would one dark page in history have read, had not George 
Washington been George Washington all his life. 

And now let us look for a moment at the other side of the picture. 

Suppose instead of the cry uttered by the watchman one niglit as the 
State House struck oiie — "One o'clock and Cpfuwallis is taken '." — he had 
shrieked forth — 

" One o'clock, and George Washington is taken !" 

Then would histor)- have ciironicled a scene like this : 

One summer day an immense crowd gathered on Tybnrn Hill. Yes, 
that immense crowd spread far along the street, over the house tops, clung 
to the trees, or darkened over the church steeples. That day London had 
given forth its livery and its rags — its nobility and its rabble. St. Giles, 
'that foul haunt of pollution, sent its thieves and its beggars — St. James, the 
home of royally, sent its princes and its lords, to swell tlie numbers of this 
vast crowd whicli now darkened far and wide over Tyburn Hill. 

And in the centre of this wide theatre — whose canopy is yonder blue 
lieaven — whose walls are human faces — there glooms a scaflbld covered 
with drooping folds of black. 

There, on tliat scaffold, stand three persons : — That grim figure, with 
face muffled in crape, and the axe in his hand, that is the executioner. 

There is a Wock by his side, and around that block is scattered a heap 
of saw dust. 

That saw dust has drunk the blood of men like Algernon Sidney — but 
to-day will drink the blood of a greater rebel than he ! 

By tlie side of that executioner stands another liu-ure in black, not a hano-- 
man, but a priest, come to pray for the traitor. 

And the third figure ? 

See, how he towers above priest and hangman, his blue uniform still en- 
robing his proud figure — a calm resolution still sitting like a glory upon his 
brow ! 

Can you tell me the name of this traitor ? 

Why you must be a stranger in London not to know his story. Why 
the rabble in tlie street have it at tlieir tongues' end — and those noble ladies 
looking from yonder windows — tliey shed some tears when they speak it. 

That man standing on the scalVold is the great rebel, who was captured at 
Yorktown — brought home in chains — tried in Parliament — sentenced to 
death — and to-day he dies. 

And now look, the priest approaches ; he begs that calm-faced traitor to 
repent of his treason before he dies, — to be reconciled to his King, the good 



114 THE WISSAHIKON. • 

King Georf^c ; to repent of his wicked deeds at Trenton, Monnioiuli, Gcr- 
nianlown, lir.\ndj-\v'ine, and Valley Forge. 

And as the priest doles out his store of set-phrases, look how that noble- 
looking rebel pushes him aside with a quiet scorn. 

Then, with one prayer to God, with one thought of liis country, now 
bleeding in her chains, he kneels — iiis head on the block. 

How awliiUy still that crowd has become. The executioner draws near. 
Look ! he strijis that blue coat from the rebel's shoulders — epaulettes, sword- 
belt and sword — he tears them all from his manly form. AVith his vile 
hands he breaks that sword ia twain — for it is a rebel's sword. 

Ijook ! he feels the edge of the axe — still that noble rebel, but half dressed, 
is kneeling there, in the light of the summer sun. 

That axe glimmers into light. 

Now iiold your breath — oil, horror ! — it falls. — There is a stream of 
blood pouring down into the saw dust — there is a human head rolling on the 
scaffold ! 

And now look again ! 

As that vast crowd breathe in gasps, the executioner, with crape over his 
face, raises the head into light — and while the features yet quiver, while the 
blood falls pattering down upon the mangled corse — 

Hark — do you hear his brutal shout ? 

" Behold the head of George Washington, the rebel and traitor !" 

Thank God! that page was never written in history ! And who will 
dare to say that this picture is too strongly drawn ? Ah, my friends, had 
my Lord Ccu'nwallis been the victor at Yorktown, had the Continental 
armies been crushed, then these streets would have been too narrow to con- 
tain the gibbets erected by the British King. 

Ah ! those English lords and ladies — these English bards are now too 
glad to lisp the praises of Washington. 

But had the American armies been crnshed, then would the head of 
Washington have been nailed to the door-post of Independence Hall. 

And now tliiit you have seen wliat Washington might have been as the 
Duke, the Viceroy, the King — or how dark would have been his fate as the 
rebel, the crushed and convicted traitor — let us look at him as he is. 

Is. For he is not dead ! For he will never die ! For he lives — lii-es 
at this hour, in a fuller and bolder life than ever. 

Where'er there is a hearthstone in our land, there AVashington shines its 
patron saint. 

Wherever a mother can teach her child some name, to write in its heart 
and wear there forever next to the name of the Kedccnier, that name is 
Washington. 

Yes, we are like those men who dig in the deep mines of iVnrwaj- — 
there in the centre of the earth lorever burns one bright undying llamc — no 
one asks who first built the fire — but aU know that it has burned for ages — 



THE HERO WOMAN. 115 

all, from father to son, make it a holy duty to heap fuel on that fire, and 
watch it as though it were a god. 

The name of Washiiistnu is that eternal fire built in every American 
heart, and burning on when the night is darkest, and blazing brightest whea 
the gloom is most terrible. 

So lot that altar of flame burn ami Inirn on forever, a living testimonial 
of that man who too proud to be a Duke, or Viceroy, or King,— struck 
liigher and bolder in his ambition, struck at that place in the American heart 
second in glory, and only second, be it spoken with awful reverence — to the 
eternal Majesty of God. 



K 



VI.— THE IIKRO WOMAN. 



In the shadows of the AVissahikon woods, not more than half a mile 
from the Schuylkdl, there stood in the time of the Revolution, a quaint old 
fabric, buill of mingled logs and stone, and encircled by a palisaded wall. It 
had been erected in the earlier days of William Penn, — perhaps some years 
before the great apostle of peace first trod our shores, — as a block-house, in- 
tended for defence ajiainst the Indians. 

And now it stood with its many roofs, its numerous chimneys, its massive 
square windows, its varied front of logs and stone, its encircling wall, 
through which admittance was gained by a large and stoutly-built gate : it 
stood in the midst of the wood, with age-worn trees enclosing its veteran 
oudine on every side. 

From its western window you might obtain a glimpse of the Schuylkill 
waves, while a large casement in the southern front, commanded a view of 
the winding road, as it sunk out of view, imder the shade of thickly-clustered 
boughs, into a deep hollow, not more llian one hundred yards from the 
mansion. 

Here, from the southern casement, on one of those balmy summer days 
which look in upon the dreary autumn, toward the close of November, a 
farmer's daughter was gazing with dihiting eyes and half-clasped hands. 

Well might she gaze earnestly to the south, and listen with painful inten- 
sity for the sliglilest sound! Her brothers were away with the army of 
Washington, ami her father, a grim old veteran — he stood six feet and three 
inches in his stockings — who had manifested his love for the red-coat in- 
vaders, in many a desperate contest, had that morning left her alone in the 
old mansion, alone in this small chamber, in char^ip of some ammunition in- 
tended for a i)and of brave farmers, about to join the hosts of freedom. 
Even as she stood there, gazing out of the southern window, a faint glimpse 
of sunlight from the faded leaves above, pouring over her mild face, shaded 
by clustering brown hair, there, not ten paces from her side, were seven 
loaded rifles and a keg of powder. 



116 THE WISSAHIKON. 

Leaning from the casonieiit, slie listened with every nerve quivering with 
suspense, to the shouts of combatants, tiie iuirried tread ol' armed men eclio- 
ing from the soutli. 

Tiiere was something very beautiful in that picture ! The form of the 
3'ouug girl, framed by the square massive window, the contrast between the 
rougli timbers, that enclosed her, and that rounded face, the lips parting, the 
liazel eye dilating, and the cheek warming and flushing with liope and fear; 
there was something very beautiful in that picture, a young girl leaning from 
tlie window of an old mansion, with her brown hair waving in glossy 
masses aniund lier face ! 

Suddenly the shouts to the south grew nearer, and then, emerging from 
the deep hollow, there came an old man, running at full s|)eed, yet every 
few paces, turning round to fire the rifle, which he loaded as he ran. He 
was pursued by a party of ten or more British soldiers, who came rushing 
on, their bayonets fixed, as if to strike their victim down, ere he advanced 
ten paces nearer the house. 

On and on the old man came, while his daughter, quivering with sus- 
pense, hung leaning from the window ; — he reaches the block-house gate-> 
look ! He is surrounded, their muskets are levelled at his head ; he is 
down, down at their feet, grapjiling for his life ! But look again ! — He 
dashes his foes aside, with one bold movement he springs through the gate ; 
an instant, and it is locked ; the British soldiers, mad with rage, gaze upon 
the high wall of logs and stone, and vent their anger in drunken curses. 

Now look to yonder window ! Where the young girl stood a moment 
ago, quivering with suspense, as she beheld her father struggling for his life, 
now stands that old man himself, bis brow bared, his arm grasping the rifle, 
while his grey hairs wave back from his wrinkled and blood-dabbled face ! 
That was a fine picture of an old veteran, nerved for his last fight; a stout 
warrior, preparing for his death-struggle. 

Death-struggle ? Yes ! — for the oUl man, Isaac Wampole, had dealt too 
many hard blows among the British soldiers, tricked, foiled, cheated them 
too often to escape now ! A few moments longer, and they would be re- 
inforced by a strong party of refugees ; the powder, the arms, in the old 
block-house, perhaps that daughter herself, was to be their reward. There 
was scarcely a hope for the old man, and yet he had determined to make a 
desperate fight. 

" AVc nnist blulT oflT these rascals I" he said, with a grim smile, turning to 
liis child. " Now, Bess, my girl, when I fire this rifle, do you hand me 
another, and so on, until the whole eight shots arc fired ! 'i'liat will keep 
them on the other side of the wall, for a few moments at least, and then we 
will have to trust to God for the rest !" 

Look down there, and see, a hand stealing over the edge of the wall ! 
The old man levels his piece — that British trooper falls back with a crushed 
hand upon his comrades' heads ! 



THE HERO WOMAN. 117 

No longer quivering with suspense, but grown suJdeniy firm, lliat young 
girl passes a loaded rifle to the veteran's grasp, and silently awaits the 
result. 

For a moment all is silent below ; the British bravoes are somewhat 
loath to try that wall, when a stout old " Rebel," rifle in hand, is looking 
from yonder window ! There is a pause — low, deep murmurs — they are 
holding a council ! 

A moment is gone, and nine heads are thrust above the wall at once — 
hark ! One — two — three ! — The old veteran has fired three shots, there are 
three dying men, grovelling in the yard, beneath the shadow of the wall I 
"Quick, Bess, the rifles !' 

And tlie brave girl passes the rifles to her father's grasp ; there are four 
shots, one after the other ; three more soldiers fell back, like weiglits of lead 
upon the ground, and a single red-coat is seen, slowly mounting to the top of 
the wall, his e)'e fixed upon the hall door, which he will force ere a moment 
is gone ! 

Now the last ball is fired, the old man stands there, in that second-story 
window, his hands vainly grasping for another loaded rifle ! At this mo- 
ment, the wounded and dying band below, are joined by a party of some 
twenty refugees, who, clad in their half-robber uniform, came rushing from 
the woods, and with one bound are leaping for the summit of the wall ! 
" Quick, Bess, my rifle !" 

And look there — even while the veteran stood looking out upon his foes, 
the brave girl — for, slender in form, and wildly beautiful in face, she is a 
brave girl, a Hero-Woman — had managed, as if by instinctive impulse, to 
load a rifle. She handed it to her father, and then loaded another, and an- 
other ! — Wasn't that a beautiful sight ? A fair young girl, grasping powder 
and ball, with the ramrod rising and falling in her slender fingers ! 

Now look down to the wall again ! The refugees are clambering over 
its summit — again that fatal aim — again a horrid cry, and another wounded 
man toppling down upon his dead and dying comrades ! 

But now look ! — A smoke rises there, a fire blazes up around the wall ; 
they have fired the gate. A moment, and the bolt and the lock will be 
burnt from its sockets — the passage will be free ! Now is the fiery moment 
of the old man's trial ! While his brave daughter loads, he continues to 
fire, with that deadly aim, but now — oh horror ! He falls, he falls, with a 

musquet ball driven into his breast the daughter's outstretched arms 

receive the fither, as with the blood spouting from his wound, lie topples 
back from the window. 

Ah, it is a sad and terrible picture ! 

That old man, writhing there, on the oaken floor, the young daughter 
bending over him, the light from the window streaming over her face, over 
her father's grey hairs, while the ancient furniture of the small chamber 
affords a dim back-ground to the scene ! 

13 



118 THE WISSAHIKON. 

fiow liark ! — Tlie sotiiid of axes, at the hall door — shouts — hurrahs — 
curses ! 

" We have the old rebtl, at last !" 

Tiie old man raises his head at that sound ; makes an elTort to rise; 
clutches for a rifle, and then falls back again, his eyes glaring, as the fierce 
pain of that wound quivers through his heart. 

Now watch the movements of that daugluer. Silendy she loads a rifle, 
silently she rests its barrel against ihe head of that powder keg, and then, 
placing her finger on the trigger, stands over her father's form, while the 
shouts of the enraged soldiers come thundering from the stairs. Yes, they 
have broken the hall door to fragments, they are in possession of the old 
block-house, they are rushing toward tliat chamber, with murder in their 
hearts, and in their glaring eyes ! Had the old man a tliousand lives, they 
were not worth a farthing's purchase now. 

Still that girl — grown suddenl}' white as the 'kerchief round her neck — 
stands there, trembling from head to foot, the rifle in her hand, its dark 
tube laid against the powder-keg. 

The door is burst open — look there ! Stout forms are in the doorway, 
with musquets in their hands, grim faces stained with blood, glare into the 
room. 

Now, as if her very soul was coined into the words, tliat young girl with 
her face pale as ashes, her hazel eye glaring with deathly light, utters this 
short yet meaning speech — 

" Advance one step into tlie room, and I will fire this rifle into tlie powder 
there !" 

No oath quivers from the lips of that girl, to confirm her resolution, but 
there she stands, alone with her wounded father, and yet not a soldier dare 
cross the threshold ! Embrued as they are in deeds of blood, there is some- 
thing terrible to these men in the simple words of that young girl, who 
stands there, with the rifle laid against the powder-keg. 

They stood as if spell-bound, on the threshold of that chamber! 

At last one bolder than the rest, a bravo, whose face is half-concealed in 
a thick red beard, grasps his musquet, and levels it at the young girl's 
breast ! 

" Stand back, or by , I will fire !" 

Still the girl is firm ; tlie bravo advances a step, and then starts back. 
The sharp " elide" of that rifle falls with an unpleasant emphasis upon 
his ear. 

" Bess, I am dying," gasps the old man, faindy extending his arms. 
" Ha, ha, we foiled the Britishers I Come — daughter — kneel here ; kneel 
and say a prayer for me, and let me feel your warm breath upon my face, 
for I am getting cold O, dark and cold !"' 

Look ! — As those trembling accents fall from the old man's tongue, 
those fingers unloose their hold of the rifle — already the troopers are secure 



KING GEORGE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 119 

of one victim, at least, a young and beautil'ul girl ; for aflection for her father, 
is mastering the heroism of the moment — look ! She is about to spring 
into his arms ! But now she sees iter clanger ! again she clutches the rifle ; 
again — although her father's dying accents are in her ears — stands there, 
prepared to scatter that house in ruins, if a single rough hand assails that 
veteran form. 

There are a few brief terrible moments of suspense. Then a hurried 
sound, far down the mansion ; then a contest on the stairs ; tlien the echo 
of rifle shot and the light of rifle blaze ; then those ruffians in the doorway, 
fall crushed before the strong arras of Continental soldiers. Then a wild 
shriek quivers through the room, and tliat young girl — that Hero- Woman, 
with one bound, springs forward into her brothers' arms, and nestles there, 
while her dead father — his tbrm yet warm — lays with fixed eyeballs upon 
the floor. 

VII— KING GEORGE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

One fine summer afternoon, in the year 17S0, King George the Third,- 
of Great Brilain, defender of the faith, as well as owner of a string of other 
titles, as long as a hypocrite's prayer, took a quiet stroll through the dim 
cloisters of Westminster Abbey. 

It does not become me to picture that magnificent House of the Dead, 
where Royalty sleeps its last slumber, as soundly as though it had never 
butchered tlie innocent freeman, or robbed the orphan of her bread, while 
poor Genius, starved and kicked while living, skulks into some corner, with 
a marble monument above its tired head. 

No ! We will leave the description of Westminster Abbey to any one of 
the ten thousand travellers, who depart from their own country — scarce 
knowing whether Niagara is in New York or Georgia — and write us home 
sucli delightful long letters about Kini^s and Queens, and other grand folks. 

No ! All we have to do is to relate a most singular incident, which hap- 
pened to George the Third, etc., etc., etc. — on this fine summer afternoon, 
in the year of our Lord, 1780. 

Do you see that long, gloomy aisle, walled in on either side by gorgeous 
tombs, with the fretted roof above, and a mass of red, blue, purple and gold 
pouring in on the marble pavement, through the discolored window-panes, 
yonder ? Does not the silence of this lonely aisle make you afraid ? Do 
you not feel that tlie dead are around, about, beneath, above — nay, in 
the air ? 

After you have looked well at this aisle, with its splendid tombs, its mar- 
ble floor, its heavy niasses of shade and discolored patches of light, let me 
ask you to look upon the figure, which, at this moment, turns the corner 
of yonder monument. 

He stands aside from the light, yet you behold every outline of his face 



120 THE WISSAiriKON. 

and form. lie is clad in a coal of dark purple velvet, faced witli gold lace. 
His breeches are of a pale blue satin ; his stockings flesh-colored, and of 
the finest silk. There is a jewelled garter around his right leg. Mis white 
satin vest gleams with a single star. His shoes glitter with diamonds buckles, 
he carries a richly-faced hat under his right arm. This is a very pretty 
dress: and I am sure you will excuse me for being so minute, as I have 
ilie greatest respect for grand folks. 

Tliis man — if it is not blasphemous to call such a great being a man — 
seems prematurely old. His face does not strike you with its majesty ; for 
his forehead is low, the pale blue eyes bulge out from their sockets, the 
lower lip hangs down upon tlie rliin. Indeed, if this man was not so great 
a being, you would call iiim an Idiot. 

This, in fact, is George the Third, King of Great Britain, Ireland and 
France ; and owner of a string of other titles, who rules by divine right. 

As he stands near yonder moiuirnent, a woman — dressed in faded black 
— starts from behind that big piece of sculptured marble, on which " Mercy" 
appears, in the act of bending from the skies, and flings iierself at the feet 
of the King. 

" Mercy !" she cries, with uplifted hands. 

"What — what — what?" stammers the good King. "What's all this?" 

" My son committed robbery, some two months ago. He robbed on the 

highway to give me bread. I was sick — famished — dying. He has been 

condemned to death, and to-morrow he dies. Mercy for the widow's son ?" 

"What — what — what? Eh? What's this? How much did he steal?" 

" Oidy ten sliiUings ! Only ten shillings ! For the love of God, mercy ?" 

The gooil King looked u])on the wan face and pleading eyes of that poor 

woman, and said, hurriedly — 

" I cannot pardon your son. If I pardon the thief, I may as well pardoa 
the forger and murderer. — There — go, good woman : I can do nothing 
for you." 

The good King turned away, leaving the insensible form of the widow 
stretched out upon the marble floor. He would have pardoned her boy, 
but there were some two or three hundred crimes punishable with death, 
from the petty olfence of killing a man up to the enormous blasphemy of 
shooting a rabbit on a rich man's estate. Therefore, King George could not 
pardon one of these crimes, for, do you mark, the hangman once put down, 
there is an end of all law. 

The King, I like to call grand people by their titles, the good King — I 
also like to call him good, because, do you see, the Archbishop of Canter- 
bury called him so, in his sermon, every Simday morning — the good King 
turned away, leaving the poor widow insensible on the floor. 

This litde incident had somewhat e.vcited him, so he sank down upon the 

corner of a marble slab, and bent his head upon his hand, and began to think. 

All at once, he felt seized by invisible hands, and borne, with tlie speed 



KING GEORGE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 121 

of liglit, tliroiigh the air and over a long sweep of ocean waves. His journey 
was but for a luoment, yet, it seemed to him, that he had traversed tliousands 
of miles. \Vheii he opened his eyes again, he found himself standing by a 
road-side, opposite a beautiful litUe cottage, which, with a garden in front, 
smiled upon the view from a grove of orchard trees. A young woman with 
a litde boy by her side and a baby in her arms, stood in the cottage door. 

The King could not admire that cottage too much, with its trees and 
flowers, and, as for that rosy-cheeked woman, in the linsey gown, he was 
forced to admit to himself that he had never seen anything half so beautiful, 
even in the llmjal Umiily. 

While the King was looking upon the young woman and her children, he 
heard a strange noise, and, turning his head, he beheld a man in a plain 
farmer's coat, with a gun in his hand, tottering uj) the highway. His face 
was vcr)' pale, and as he walked tremblingly along, the blood fell, drop by 
drop, froin a wound near his heart, upon the highway dust. 

The man stumbled along, reached the garden gate, and sprang forward, 
with a bound, towards the young woman and her children. 

" Husband !" shrieked tlie young woman. 

" Father !" cried the little boy. 

Even the baby lifted its little hands, and greeted in its infant tones that 
wounded man. 

Yet the poor farmer lay there at the feet of his wife, bleeding slowly to 
death. The young woman knelt by his side, kissing him on the forehead, 
and placing her hand over the wound, as if to stop the blood, but it was in 
vain. The red current started from his mouth. 

The good King lifted his eyes. The groans of the dying man, the shrieks 
of the wife, the screams of the litde children, sounded like voices from the 
dead. At last his feelings overcome him — 

"Who," he shouted, "who has done this murder?" 

As he spoke — as if in answer to his question — a stout, muscular man 
came running along the road,«in the very path lately stained with the blood 
of the wounded man. He was dressed in a retl coat, and in his right hand 
lie grasped a musquet, with a bayonet dripping blood. 

" 1 killed that fellow," he said in a rude tone, " and what have you got 
to say to it ?" 

" Did he ever harm you ?" said the King. 

" No — I never saw him before this hour !" 

" Then why did you kill him ?" 

" I killed him for eight-pence," said the man, with a brutal sneer. 

The good King raised his hands in horror, and called on his God to pity 
the wretch ! 

"Killed a man for eight-pence! Ah, you wretch! Don't you hear the 
groans of his wife ? — the screams of his children ?"' 

" Why, that hain't nolhin'," said the man in the red coat. " I've killed 



, 122 TIIK WISSAHIKON. 

many a one to-day, beside him. I'm quite used to it, though burnin' 'cm 
ahve in llieir houses is much better I'un." 

The King now foamed witli righteous scorn. 

' Wretch !" lie screamed, " wliere is your master, tiiis devil in human 
shape, wlio gives you eight-pence for killing an innocent man !" 

" Oh, hc'.s a good ways over the water," said the man. " His name i8 
George the 'J'hiud. He's my King. He " 

The good King groaned. 

" Why — why," said he, slowly, " I must be in America. That dying 
man must be a — Rebel. You must be one of my soldiers " 

" Yes," said the man in the red coat, with a brutal grin ; " you took me 
out o' Newgate, and put this pretty dress on my back. 'J'liat man whom I 
killed was a farmer : he sometimes killed sheep for a dollar a day. I'm 
not quite so well oil" as him, for I kill men, and only get eight-pence a day. 
I say, old gentleman, couldn't you raise my wages 1" 

But the King did not behold the brute any longer. He only saw that 
the young woman and her children, kneeling around the body of the dead 
man. 

Suddenly those invisible hands again grasped his Royal person, and bore 
him tlirough the air. 

When he again opened his eyes, he beheld a wide lawn, extending in the 
light of the December moon. That lawn was white with snow. From its 
centre arose an old-time mansion, with grotesque ornaments about its roof, 
a hall door defended by pillars, and steps of stone, surmounted by two lions 
in marble. All around the mansion, like sentinels on their midnight watch, 
stood scattered trees, their bare limbs rising clearly and distinctly into the 
midnight sky. 

While the King was wrapped in wonder at the sight — behold ! A band 
of women, a long and solemn train, came walking over the lawn, their long 
black gowns trailing in the winter snow. . 

It was a terrible sight to see those wan faces, upturneil to the cold moon, 
but oh ! the chaunt they sung, those spectral women, as they slowly wound 
around the lawn : it chilled the King's blood. 

For that chaunt implored Almighty (iod to curse King George of Eng- 
land for the murder of their husbands — fathers — brothers ! 

Then came a band of little children, walking two by two, and raising 
their tiny hands in the light of the moon. They also rent the air with a 
low, deep chaunt, sung in tlicir infantile tones. 

George, the King, listened to that cliannt with freezing blood, with tremb- 
ling limbs. He knew not why, but he joined in that song in spite of him- 
self, he sung their hymn of woe. 

" George of Ensrland, we curse thee in the sight of God, for the murder 
of our fathers ! We curse thee with the orplian's curse !'' 



KING GEORGE IN WESTMINSTER AEEEY. 123 

Tliis was their cliaunt. No oilier words they sung. But this simple 
hymn they sung again and again, raising their little hands to God. 

" Oh, this is hard !" shrieked King George. " I could bear the curse of 
warriors — nay, even the curse of the Priest at the Aliar ! But to be cursed 
by widows — to be cursed by little children — ah " 

The good King fell on his knees. 

" Where am I !" he shrieked — " and who are these ?" 

A voice from the still winter air answered — 

" I'ou are on the ballle-ficld. Y'hese are the widows and orphans of the 
dead of Germantotvn." 

" But did 1 murder their fiUhers ? Their husbands ?" 

The voice replied — 

" You did ! Too cowardly or too weak to kill them with your own hand, 
you hired your starving peasants, your condemned felons to do it for you !" 

The King grovelled in the snow and beat his head against the frozen 
ground. He felt that he was a murderer: he could feel the brand of Cain 
blistering upon his brow. 

Again he was taken up — again borne through the air. 

Where was he now ? He looked around, and by the light of that Decem- 
ber inoou, struggling among thick clouds, he beheld a scattered village of 
huts, extending along wintry hills. Tiie cold wind cut his cheek and froze 
his blood 

An object at his feet arrested his eye. He stooped down : examined it 
with a shudder. It was a man's footsteps, printed in blood. 

The King was chilled to the heart by the cold ; stujjilied with horror at 
the sight of this strange footstep. He said to himself, I will hasten to yonder 
hut; I will escape from the wind and cold, and the sight of that horrid 
footstep. 

He started toward the village of huts, but all around him those bloody 
footsteps in ihe snow seemed to gather and increase at every inch of his 
way. 

At last he reached the first hut, a rude structure of logs and mud. He 
looked in the door, and beheld a naked man, worn to a skeleton, stretched 
prostrate on a heap of straw. 

" Ho ! my friend," said the King, as though a voice spoke in him, with- 
out his will, " why do yon lie here, freezing to death, when my General, 
Sir William Howe, at Philadelphia yonder, will give you such fine clothes 
and rich food ?" 

The freezing man looked up, and muttered a few brief words, and then 
fell back— dead ! 

" Washington is here I" was all he said, ere he died. 

In another hut, in search of shelter, peeped the cold and hungry King. 
A rude fellow sale warming his hands by a miserable fire, over which an 



124 THE WISLAIIIKON. 

old ketlle was suspemlcd. His face was lean ami his cheeks hollow, nay, 
the haiuls which he held out towards the liglit, looked like ihe hands of a 
skeleton. 

" IIo ! my fiiciul — what cheer?" said the King. "lam hungry — have 
you any thing to cat ?" 

" Not much of any account," replied the rude follow ; "yesterday I eat 
the last of my dog, and to-day I'm goin' to dine on these mocassins : don't 
you hear 'em bilin' ?" 

" Hut," said the King, " there's fine living at Philadelphia, in the camp of 
Sir William. \Vhy do you stay here to starve?" 

" Was you ever to school ?" said the starved Rebel. " Do you knoMr 
how to spell L-i-u-i>R-T-v I" 

The good King passed on. In the next hut lay a poor wretch dying of 
that loathsome plague — small-pox. 

"Come," said the King, or rather the voice in him spoke, " awaj* to 
Philadelphia !" 

"These hills are free !" cried the poor wretch, lifting his loathsome face 
into light ; then, without a moan, he laid down to his fever and starvation 
again. 

At last, his Royal brain confounded by the words of these strange men 
the King entered a two-story stone house, which arose in the glen, between 
the hills, near the brink of a dark river. Slowly entered the King, attracted 
by the sound of a voice at prayer along a dark passage, into a small chamber, 
in which a light was burning. 

A man of noble visage was on his knees, praying to God in earnest 
tones — 

" We will endure disease, starvation, death, but, in thy name, oh, God ! 
we will never give up our arms ! The tyrant, with murder in his heart, 
may darken our plains with his liirelings, possess our cities, but still we 
thank thee, oh, God ! that the mountains arc free, that where the panther 
howls, w'o may yet find a home for the brave. 

" Hold, hold!" shouted the voice within the King, as the terror-stricken 
Monarch rushed into the room. " Washington do not pray against me ! I 
can bear to be called a murderer — a butcher of orphans, but that you— vou, 
so calm amid starvation, nakedness, disease — you whom 1 thought hunted 
long ago, like a wolf before the hounds — that you should call God's ven- 
geance on my head — that 1 cannot bear ! \\'ashington, do not pray 
against me !" 

And he Ihing himself at the feet of the Hunted Rebel, and besouglit liis 
mercy with trembling hands, extended in a gesture of supjilicaiion. 

" It was I that butchered your farmers ! It was I that tore the husband 
from the wife, the father from his child ! It was I that drove these freemen 
to the huts of Valley Forge, where they endure the want of bread, fire, the 
freezing cold, the loathsome small-pox, rather than take my gold — it was I ! 



KING GEORGE IN WESTMINSTER ADBEY. 125 

Rebel I am at your feet! Have mercy ! I, George Liy the Grace of God, 
Defender of the Faith, Head of the Cluirch, fling myself at your feet, and 
beg your pity ! For I am a murderer — the murderer of thousands and tens 
of lliousands !"' 

He started tremblingly forward, but in the action, that room, that solemn 
face and warrior form of the Rebel, passed away. 

George the King awoke : he had been dreaming. He woke with the 
cold sweat on his brow ; a tremor like the ague upon his limbs. 

The sun was sotting, and his red light streamed in one gaudy blaze 
through yonder stained window. — All was terribly still in Westminster 
Abbey. 

The King arose, he rushed along the aisles, seeking with slarling eyes 
for the form of the poor widow. At last he beheld her, shrouded in her 
faded garments, leaning for support against a marble figure of Mercy. 

The King rushed to her, with outspread hands. 

" Woman, woman !" he shrieked, " I pardon your son !" 

He said nothing more, he did not even wait to receive her blessings, but 
rushing with irembling steps toward the door, he seized the withered old 
Porter, who waited Uiere, by the hand 

"Do you see it in my face?" he whispered — "don't you see the brand 
— MuKDKR — here ?" 

He sadly laid his hand against his forehead, and passed through the door, 
on his way. 

" The poor King's gone mad !" said the old Porter. " God bless his 
Majesty !" 

In front of that dim old Abbey, with its ondines of grandeur and gloom, 
wailed the Royal carriage, environed by guards. Two men advanced to 
meet tlie King — one clad in the altire of a nobleman, with a heavy face and 
dull eye ; and the other in the garb of a Prelate, with mild blue eyes and 
snow-white hair. 

"I hope your Majesty's prayers, for ihe defeat of the Rebels, will be 
smiled upon by Heaven !" 

Thus with a smile and gently-waving hand, spoke my Lord, the Arch- 
bisliop of Canlerbury. 

" O, by Christmas next, we'll have this Washington brought home in 
cliains !" 

Thus with a grufT chuckle spoke my Lord North, Prime Minister of 
England. 

The good King looked at them both with a silly smile, and then pressed 
his finger against his forehead. 

" What — what — wliat ? Do you see it here ? Do, you see it ? It burns ! 
Eh ? Murderer !" 

AVith that silly smile the King leaped in the carriage. Hurrah ! How 

14 



126 THE WISSAIIIKON. 

the mob shouted — how ihc swonls of the guards gleamed on high — how 
gaily tiie chariot wheels dashed along the streets — hurrali ! 

Let us swell tlic shout, but — 

Tiiat iiijjht a rumor crept ilirough all London, that Ki.no George was 

MAD AGAIN ! 

Vlll.— VALLliV I'OROE. 

I1ii)di;n away there in a deep glen, not many miles from Valley Forge, a 
quaint old farm house rose darkly over a wide waste of snow. 

It was a cold dark winter night, and the snow began to fall — when from 
the broad fireplace of the old farm house, the cheerful blaze of massive logs- 
flashed around a wide and spacious room. 

Two persons sat there by that lire, a father and child. The father, who 
sits yonder, with a soldier's belt thrown over his farmer's dress, is a man 
of some fifiy years. !iis eyes bloodshot, his hair changed to an untimely grey, 
his face wrinkled and hallowed by care, and by dissipation more than care. 

And the dasighler who sits in the full light of the blaze opposite her father 

a slenderly formed girl of some seventeen years, clad in the coarse linsey 

skirt and kerchief, which made up the costume of a farmer's daughter, in 
the days of the Revolution. 

She is not beautiful — ah, no ! 

Care — perhaps that disease, consumption, which makes the heart grow 
cold to name — has been busy with that young face, sharpened its outlines, 
and stamped it with a deathly paleness. 

Tiicre is no bloom on that young cheek. The brown hair i^; laid plainly 
aside from her pale brow. Then tell nic, what is it \-ou see, when you gaze 
in her face ' 

You look at that young girl, you see nothing but the gleam of two large 
dark cj-es, that burn into your soul. 

Yes, those eyes are unnaturally large and dark and bright— perhaps con- 
sumption is feeding their flame. 

And now as the father sits there, so mood)*and sullen, as the daughter 
sits yoniler, so sad and silent and pale, toll me, I pray you, the story of 
their lives. 

That farmer, Jacob Manheim, was a peaceful, a happy man, before the 
Revolution. Since the war, he has become drunken and idle — driven his 
wife broken-hearted to the grave — and worse than all, joined a band of Tory 
refugees, who scour the land as dead of night, burning and murdering as 
they go. 

To-night, at the hour of two, this Tory band will lie in wait, in a neigh- 
boring pass, to attack and murder the " Rebel" Washington, whose starving 
soldiers are yonder in the huts of Vallej' Forge. 

Washington on his lonely journeys is wont to pass this farm house; — 



VALLEY FORGE. 127 

the cut-lhroats arc there in the next chamber, drinking and feasting, as they 
wait for two o clocic at night. 

And ilie daughter, Mary— for her name was Mary ; ihey loved that name 
in the good old times— what is tiie story of her brief young life ? 

She iiad been reared by her mother, now dead and gone home, to revere 
this man Wasfiington, who to-night will be attacked and murdered— to revere 
him next to God. Nay, more : that mother on her death-bed joined the 
hands of this daughter, iji solemn betrothal with the hands of a young parti- 
san leader, Harry Williams, who now shares the crust and the cold of 
Valle3»- Forge. 

Well may that maiden's eye flash with unnatural brightness, well may 
her pale face gather a single burning flush, in the centre of each cheeic ! 

For yesterday afternoon, she went four miles, over roads of ice and snow, 
to tell Captain Williams the plot of the refugees. She did not reach Valley 
Forge until Washington had left on one of his lonely journeys ; so this night, 
at twelve, the partizan captain will occupy the rocks above the neighboring 
pass, to "trap the trappers" of George Washington. 

Yes, that pale slender girl, remembering the words of her dj'ing mother, 
had broken through her obedience to her father, after a long and bitter strug- 
gle. How dark that struggle in a faithful daughter's heart! She had 
betrayed his plots to his enemies — stipulating first for the life, the safety of 
her traitor-fadier. 

And now as father and child are silting there, as tlie shouts of the Tory 
refugees echo from the next chamber — as the hand of the old clock is on the 
hour of eleven — hark ! There is the sound of horses' hoofs without the 
farm house — there is a pause — the door opens — a tall stranger, wrapped in 
a thick cloak, white with snow, enters, advances to the fire, and in brief 
words solicits some refreshment and an hour's repose. 

Why does the Tory Manheim start aghast at the sight of that stranger's 
blue and gold uniform — then mumbling something to his daughter about 
"getting food for the traveller," rush wildly into the next room, where his 
brother Tories are feasting ? 

Tell nic, why does that young girl stand trembling before the tall stranger, 
veiling her eyes from that calm face, with its blue eye and kindly smile? 

Ah — if we may believe the legends of that time, few men, few warriors, 
who dared the terror of battle with a smile, coidd stand unabashed before 
the solemn presence of Washington. 

For it was Washington, exhausted, widi a long journey — his limbs stif- 
fened and his face numbed with cold — it was the great " Rebel" of Valley 
Forge, who returning to camp sooner thaft his usual hour, was forced by 
the storm to take refuge in the farmer's house, and claim a little food and 
an hour's repose at his hands. 

In a few moments, behold the Soldier, with his cloak thrown off, sitting 



128 THE \VIS;>AUIKON. 

at that oaken table, partaking of the food, spreail out there by the hands of 
the girl, wlio now stands trembling at his shoulder. 

And look! Her liand is extended as if to grasp him by the arm — her lips 
move as if to warn him of liis danger, but make no sound. Why all this 
silent agony for the man who sits so calmly there ? 

One moment ago, as the girl, in preparing the hasly supper, opened 
yonder closet door, adjoining the next room, she heard the low wiiispers of 
lier falher and (he Tories ; she heard the dice bo.r ralllt, as theij were cast- 
ing lots, who should stub George irushington in his sleep! 

And now, ilie words : " Beware, or thin night t/ou die!''' tremblw half- 
formed upon lier lips, wiien ihe father conies hastily from that room and 
hushes lier widi a look. 

"Show the gentleman to his chamber, Mary!" — (how calmly polite a 
murderer can be !) — " tliai chamber at tlie head of the stairs, on the left. On 
the left, you mind !"' 

Mary takes the light, trembling and pale. She leads the soldier up the 
oaken stairs. They stand on the landing, in this wing of the farm-house, 
composed of two rooms, divided by thick walls from the main body of the 
mansion. On one side, ilie right, is tlie door of Mary's chamber ; on the 
other, the left, the chamber of the soldier — to him a chamber of death. 

For a moment, Mary stands there trembling and confused. Wasiiington 
gazes upon lliat pale girl with a look of surprise. Look ! She is about to 
warn him of ids danger, wiien, see there! — her father's rough face appears 
above the head of the stairs. 

" Mary, show the gendeman into the chamber on the left. And look ye, 
girl — it's late — you'd belter go into your own room and go to sleep." 

While the Tory watches tliem fronj the head of the stairs, Washington 
enters the chamber on the left, Mary tiie chamber on the right. 

An hour passes. Still the storm beats on the roof — still the snow drifts 
on the hills. Before the lire, in die dim old hall of that farm-house, are 
seven half-drunken men, with that tall Tory, Jacob Manhcini, sitting in their 
midst ; the murderer's knife in his hand. For the lot had fallen upon him. 
He is to go up stairs and slab die sleeping man. 

Even this half-drunken murderer is pale at the thought — how the knife 
tcembles in his hand — trembles against die pistol barrel. The jeers of his 
comrades rouse him to the work, — the light in one hand, the knife in the 
other, he goes up the stairs — he listens ! — first at the door of his daughter's 
chamber on the right, then at the door of the soldier's chamber on the leA. 
All is still. Then he places die light on the lloor — he enters the chamber 
on the left — he is gone a moment — silence ! — there is a faint groan ! He 
conies forth again, rushes down the stairs, and stands there before the fire, 
wiUi the bloody knife in his hand. 

"Look!" he shrieks, as he scatters the red drops over his comrades'. 



VALLEY FORGE. 129 

faces, over tlie Iieartli, into llie liri' — " Look ! it is his blood — the trailer 
Washington !" 

His comrades gather round him with yells of joy : already, in fancy, they 
count the gold which will be paid for this deed, when lo ! that stair door 
opens, and there, without a wound, without even the stain of a drop of blood, 
stands (icorge Wnsiiington, asking cahnly for his horso. 

'•What'." shrieked the Tory Maiiheiin, " can neither steel nor bullet 
harm you? Are you a living man J is there no wound about your heart? 
no blood upon your uniform ?" 

Tiiat apparition drives liiui mad. He starts forward — he places his hands 
tremblingly upon the arms, upon the breast of Washington ! Still no wound. 
Then he looks at the bloody knife, still clutched in his right hand, and stands 
there quivering as with a death spasm. 

While Washington looks on in silent wonder, the door is (lung open, the 
bold troo|)ers from Valley Forge tliroug the room, with the gallant form and 
bronzed visage of Captain Williams in tlioir midst. At this moment the 
clock struck twelve. Then a horrid tlioiiglit crashes like a tbuiulerbolt upon 
the brain of the Tory INIanheim. lie seizes the light — rushes up stairs — 
rushes into the room of bis daughter on tlu? right. Some one had just risen 
from the bed, but the chamber was vacant. Then towards that room on 
the left, with steps of leaden heaviness. — liOok ! how the light quivers in 
his hand ! He pauses at the door; he listens ! Not a sound — a stillness 
like the grave. His blood curdles in his veins ! Gathering courage, he 
pushes open the door. Ho enters. Towards that bed through whose cur- 
tains he struck so blindly a moment ago ! Again he pauses — not a sound 
— a stillness more terrible than the grave. He lliugs aside the curtains — 

Tlicre, in the full light of the lamp, her young form but half covered, 
bathed in her own blood — there lay his daugliler, Mary ! 

Ah, do not look upon the face of the lather, as he starts silently back, 
frozen to stone ; but in this pause of horror listen to the mystery of this 
deed ! 

After her father had gone down stairs, an hour ago, Mary silently stole 
from the chamber on the right. Her soul shaken by a thousand fears, she 
opened the door on the left, and beheld Washington sitting by a table on 
which were spread a chart and a Bible. Then, though her existence was 
wound up in the act, she asked him, in a tone of calm politeness to take the 
chamber on the opposite side. Mary entered the chamber which he left. 

Can you imagine the agony of that girl's soul, as lying on the bed in- 
tended for the deadi-couch of Washington, she silently awaited the knife 
although that knife might be clenched in a liilhcr's liand. 

And now that father, frozen to stone, stood there, holding the light in one 
hand, the other still clutching the red knife. 

There lay his child, the blood streaming from that wound in her arra — 
her eyes covered wiili a glassy lihu. 



130 THE WISSAHIKON. 

" Mary !" shrieked the guilty Aitlier — f^r robber and Tory as he was, he 
was still a faihor. " Mary !" lie called to her, but that word was all lie 
could say. 

Suddenly, she seemed to wake from thai stupor. Slie sat up in the bed 
with her glassy eyes. The strong hand of death was upon her. As she 
sat there, erect ami ghastly, the room was thronged wi;h soldiers. Her 
lover rushed forward, and called her by name. No answer. Called again 
— spoke to her in the familiar tones of olden liaie — still no answer. She 
knew him not. 

Yes, it was true — the strong hand of death was upon her. 

" lias he escaped ?" she said, in that husky voii'c. 

" Yes !" shrieked the fillipr. " Live, Mary, only live, and to-morrow I 
will join the camp at Valley Forge." 

Then that girl — that Hero-Woman — dying as she was, not so much from 
the wound in her arm, as from the deep agony which had broken the last 
chord of life, spread forth her arms, as though she beheld a form floating 
there above her bed, beckoning her away. She spread forth her arms as 
if to enclose that Angel form. 

" Mother !" she wliispered — while there grouped the soldiers — there, 
with a speechless agony on his brow stood the lover — there, hiding his face 
with one hand, while the other grasped the light crouched the fuller — that 
light Hashing over the dark bed, with the while form in its centre — 
" Mother, thank God ! For with my life I have saved him " 

Look, even as starting up on that bloody couch, she speaks the half- 
formed word, her arms stilVen, her eyes wide open, set in death, glare in her 
father's face ! 

She is dead ! From that dark room her spirit has gone home ! 

That half-formed word, still quivering on the white lips of the Hero-AVo- 
man — that word uttered in a husky whisper, choked by the death-rattle — 
that word was — " WAsiiiNGTOJf !"* 



• Will you pnrdon mc, render, thai I have made the Prophetess of WIssahikon, 
relate various Legends, which do not direclly .spring I'roni her own soil? The le- 
gends of Valley Forge. King (leorge. the Mansion on the Scliuylkill. wiili others 
included under ihe general head of " Wissahikon." do not, it is irue, relate especially 
10 the soil of this romantic dell, hiil they are impregnated with the same spirit, which 
distinguishes her Iradiiions, and illustrate and develope the idea of the previous 
sketches. I have taken Wissatiikon. as the centre of a circle of old-time lioninnce, 
whose circuinlerence is descrihed hy the storied ground of Paoli, the hills of Valley 
Korge, the litlds of CJernianiown. — They were written on the banks of the Wissnhi- 
Uoii, with her wild scenery before the author's eye, the music of her stream in his 
ears. Ix has lieen his object, lo embody in every line, that spirit of mingled light and 
shade, which is stamped on every rock and tree of iho W issahiko.^. 



THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 131 



IX— THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 

Gliding one summer day over the smootli bosom of the Schuylkill, with 
the wliile sail of my boat, swelling with the same breeze that ruffled the 
pines of Laurel Hill, I slowly emerged from the shadow of an old bridge, 
and all at onoc, a prospect of singular beauty lay before me, in the beams 
of the setting t-un. 

A fine olil Miansion crowned the summit of a green hill, which arose on 
the eastern shore, its grassy breast bared to the sunset glow. A line old 
mansion of dark grey stone, with its white pillars looking out from among 
green trees. From the grassy bosom of the hill, many a white statue arose, 
many a founlain dashed its glittering drops into light. 'J'hcre was an air 
of old-time elegance and ease about that mansion, with its green lawn sloping 
gently down — almost to the river's brink, its encircling grove of magnificent 
trees, its statues and fountains. It broke on your eye, as you emerged from 
the arches of the old bridge, like a picture from Italy. 

Yet from the porch of that old-time mansion, a fairer view bursts upon 
your eye. The arches of the bridges — one spanning the river in all the 
paint and show of modern fancy, llie other gloomy as night and the grave — 
the sombre shades of Laurel Hill, hallowed by the white tond)s of die dead, 
with the Gothic Chapel rising among dark green trees — the Schuylkill, ex- 
tending far beyond bridge and Cemetry, its broad bosom enclosed on every 
side by hills and trees, resting like some mountain lake in the last glow of 
the setting suii — a fairer view does not bless the traveller's eye from the 
Aroostook to the Rio Grande. 

There is a freshness in the verdure — a beauty in that still sheet of water, 
a grandeur in yonder sombre pines, waving above the rocks of Laurel Hill 
— a rural niagniliocnce in the opposite shore of the river, rising in one mas- 
sive hill, green with woods and gay with cottage and mansion,— a beauty, a 
grandeur, a magnificence that at once marks the Falls of Schuylkill with an 
ever-renewing novelty, an unfading charm. 

The view is beautiful in the morning, when the pillars of the bridge, fling 
their heavy shadows over the water; when the tree tops of Laurel Hill, un- 
dulate to Ihe breeze in masses of green and gold, while the Schuylkill rests 
in the shade. 

Beautiful at noon, when from the thick foliage on the opposite shore, 
half-way up the massive hill, arises the blue smoke of the hidden " God of 
Steam," winding slowly upward to the cloudless sky. 

Beautiful at twilight, when flashes of purple and gold change the view 
every moment, and impart a gorgeous beauty, which does not cease when 
the spires of Laurel Hill glow in the first beam of the uprising moon. 

Ah, night, deep and solemn — the great vault above — below, and around, 



132 THE WISSAIIIKON. 

the rivor glisteninir in llie mooiiheam, the bridges one minfflpil mass of li:rht 
and darkness — Lanrel lliU a home for liie dead in truth, willi its white mon- 
uments ghirinfj fitfully into light, between the branches of the trees. There 
is a sad and solemn bcatity, resting on this scene at night. 

It was at night, that a Legend of this old-time mansion, rushed upon my 
soul. 

I stood on the porch; and the Iiridje, the Cemetry melted all at once 
away. I was with the past — linck sixty years and more, into the dim 
arcades of time. Nor bridge, nor cemetry were there, but in place of the 
cemetry, one sombre mass of wild wood ; where tlie bridge now spans the 
river, a water-fall dashed and howled among rugged rocks. No blue smoke 
of steam engine, then wound up from the green trees. A man wlio would 
Iiave dreamed of such a thing, would have been imprisoned as a mad- 
man. 

Yet a strange wild beauty, rested upon tliis mansion, this river, these 
hills in the days of the Revolution. A beauty that was born of luxuriant 
forests, a river dashing tuinidluonsly over its bed of rocks, hills lifting their 
colossal forms into the sky. A beauty whose fields and flowers were not 
crushed by the Juggernaut, "Improvement ;" whose river all untramelled, 
went singing on its way imlil it kissed the Delaware. 

It was a night in the olden-time, when Washington held the huts and hills 
of Vallev Forge, while Sir William IIowc enjoyed the balls and banquets 
of Philadelphia. 

A solitary light burned in the mansion — a tall, formal wax candle — cast- 
ing its rays around a quaint old fashioned room. A quaint, old fashioned 
room, not so much remarkable for its dimensions, as for the air of honest 
comfort, which hung about the high-haeked mahogany chairs, the oaken 
wainscot, the antique desk, standing in one corner ; a look of honest comfort 
which glowed brightly from the spacious fire-place, where pordy logs of 
hickory sent up their mingled smoke and flame. 

In front of that fire were three persons, whose altitude and gestures pre- 
sented a slnnije, an eft'ective picture. On the right, in a spacious arm- 
chair, lined with cushions, sat a man of some seventy years, his spare form 
wrapped in a silk dressing gown, his grey hair waving over his prominent 
brow to his shoulders, while his blue eyes, far sunken in their sockets, 
lighted up a wan and withered face. 

At his feet, knelt a beautifid woman, whose form swelling with the full 
outlines of mature womanhood, was enveloped in a flowing habit of easy 
folds and snow-white hue. Around that face, glowing with red on the 
cheek and lip, and marble-while on the brow, locks of golden hair fell 
in soft undulations, until they floated around the neck and bosom. Her 
blue eyes — beaming with all a woman's love for a trembling old man, that 
man her father — were fi.xed upon his face with a silent anxiety aiid 
tenderness. 



THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 133 

The old man's gaze was rivetlcd to the countenance of the third figure in 
this scene, who sat opposite, on the left side of the fire. 

A man of some fifty years, with strongly marked features, thick grey eye- 
brows, hooked nose like an eagle's beak, thin lips and prominent chin. 
His head was closely enveloped in a black silk cap, which concealing his 
hair, threw his wrinkled forehead boldly into the light. A gown or tunic 
of faded dark velvet, fell from his siioidders to his knees. His head was 
bent down, while his eyes rested upon the uncouth print of an old volume, 
whicii lay open across his knees. 

That volume was intituled — " Y"^ Laste Siccret of Cornelius Agrippa, 
nou' Jirat translated into English. Jin no. Bom. 1516. 

The man who perused its pages, was none other than the " Astrologer" 
or " Conjurer" wiio at this time of witchcraft and superstition, held a 
wonderful influence over the minds of the people, in all the country, about 
Philadelphia. 

He had been summoned hither to decide a strange question. Many 
years ago, while dwelling in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, with his 
young wife, Gerald Morton — so the old man of seventy was named — had 
been deprived of his only son, a boy of four years, by some unaccountable 
accident. The child had suddenly disappeared. Years passed — a daughter 
was born — the wife died, but no tidings reached the father's ears of his 
lost son. 

To night a strange infatuation had taken possession of his brain. 

His son was living! He was assured of this, by a voice that whispered 
to his soul. 

He was doomed to die, ere morning dawned. Ere he gave up the 
Ghost, he wished to learn something of his child, and so — with a supersti- 
tion shared by the intelligent as well as the dliterate of that time — he had 
summoned the Astrologer. 

"The child was born before midnight January 12, 1740?" said the 
Astrolncrer. " Four years from the night of his birth, he disajipeared ?" 

Tiie old man bowed his head in assent. 

" I iiave cast his Horoscope," said the Astrologer. " Uy this paper, I 
know that your son lives, for it threatens his life, with three eras of dan 
ger. Tlie first, Jan. 12, 1744. The second, Jan. 12, 1778. The third — 
a date unknown — " 

" He is in danger, then to night," said Mr. Morton ; " For to night is the 
Twelfth of January, 1778?" 

The Astrologer rose and placed a chafing dish on the carpet, near the 
antique desk, which was surmounted by an oval mirror. Scattering spices 
and various unknown compounds upon the dish, the Astrologer applied a 
light, and in a moment, one portion of the room, was enveloped in rolling 
clouds of fragrant smoke. 

" Now Amable," said he, in a meaning tone, " This charm can be tried 

15 



134 TflR WISSAinivOX. 

by a pure viri::in and l)y lici- alone. 'Would'st tliDU see lliy brollipr. at lliis 
moment? Enter this smoke and look williin liie mirror: thou shall beiiold 
him !" 

A deep silence prevailed. Cenild Morton leaned forward with parted 
lips. Amahle arose ; clasping her hands across her bosom, she passed to- 
ward the mirror, and her fornj was lost in the fragrant smoke. 

A strange smile passed over the Astrologer's face. Was it of scorn or 
malice, or merely an expression of no meaning ? 

" What dost thou see ?" 

A tremulous voice, from the bosom of the smoke-cloud, gave answer. 

" A river ! A rock ! A mansion !" 

" Look again— what seest thou now ?" 

Tiie old man half-rose from his arm-chair. That strange smile deepened 
over the Astrologer's face. 

A moment passed — no answer ! 

All was still as the grave. 

Amablc did not answer, for the sight which she beheld, took from her, 
for a moment, the power of utterance. She beiield her father's mansion, 
rising above the Schuylkill, the river and the rocks of Laurel Hill wiiite 
with snow. The silver moon from a clear cold sky shone over all. Along 
the ascent to the mansion, came a man of strange costume, with a dark eye 
and bold countenance. A voice whispered — this is your brother, maiden. 

This vision, spreading before, in the smoke-darkened glass, filled the 
maiden with wonder with awe. 

Was it a trick of the Conjurer's art ? Or did some Angel of God, lift 
the veil of flesh, from that pure woman's eyes, enabling her to beheld a 
sight denied to mortal vision ? Did some strange impulse of that angel- 
like instinct, which in woman, supplies the place of man's boasted, reason, 
warn Amable of approaching danger ? 

The sequel of the legend will tell us. 

Still the old man, starling from his scat, awaited an answer. 

At last the maiden's voice was heard — 

" I behold " she began, but her voice was broken by a shriek. 

There was the sound of a hurried struggle, a shriek, a confused Iread. In 
a moment from the clouds of smoke, appeared a man of some thirty years, 
whose muscular form was clad in the scarlet uniform of a Hritish olTicer. 
One arm held Amable by the waist, while the other wound around her neck. 

The old man started aghast from his seat. That face, swollen with de- 
bauchery, those disclosed eyeballs starting from the purple lids, those lips, 
stamped with a brutal smile — he knew it well, and knew that it was not the 
i'ace of his son. , 

lie beheld him, Captain Mareharft, a bravo who had persecuted Amable 
with his addresses and been repulsed with scorn. 

lie stood tliere, his laugh of derision, ringing through the chamber, whilo 



THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 135 

AiTiiible looked up in his brutiil face, with a terror that hushed her 
brcalh. 

The Astrologer stood near the hearth, the strange smile wliieh had crossed 
liis face, once or twice before, now deepening into a sneering laiigli. One 
hand, ])laced within his breast, fondUul the heavy purse which he had re- 
ceived for his treacher}' from llie liritish Captain. lie had despatched his 
servants from llie mansion on various errands, left the hall-door unclosed so 
as to allbrd secure entrance to the Captain and his bravoes. Amable 
was lost. 

In a moment Gerald Morton, instinctively became aware that his child 
was in the bravo's power. 

" fSpare my girl," he said, in a quivering voice. " She never harmed 
you !•' 

" O, I will spare the lovely lass," sneered Marcham, " Trust me for that ! 
Old man you needjiot fear! You old rebels witli pretty daughters, should 
not make your country mansions places of rendezvous for rebels and traitors. 
Indeed you sliould'nt. That is, if you wish to keep your pretly girls safe." 

" When was my house a rendezvous for a rebel or a traitor V said the 
old man, rising with a trembling dignity. 

" Have you not given aid, succor, money, provisions, to those rebels who 
now skulk somewhere about in the fields of Wliite Marsh ? Did not the 
rebel officers meet here for council, not more than a month ago ? Has not 
Mister Washington himself rested here, and received information at your 
Jiands ? Old man — to be plain with you — Sir William thinks the air of 
Walnut Street gaol would benefit your health. I am commanded to arrest 
you as a — SPY !" 

The old man buried his face in his white hands. 

" There is a way, however," said the Captain, leering at Amable, " Let 
me marry tliis pretty girl, and— presto veslo ! The order for your arrest 
will disappear !" 

AVith a sudden bound Amable sprang from his arms, and sank crouching 
near the hearth, her blue eyes fixed on her father, with a look of speechless 
agony. 

Tiie danger, in ail its terrible details stared her in the face. On one side, 
dishonor or the pollution of that coward's embrace — on the other, death to 
her father by the fever and confinement of AValnut Street gaol. 

It is very pretty now-a-days for certain perfumed writers and orators, to 
prate about the magnanimity of Britain, but could the victims who were 
murdered within the walls of the old Gaol by British power, rise some fine 
moonlight night, they would form a ghastly band of witnesses, extending 
from die prison gate to the doors of Independence Hall. 

Tlie old man, Amable, the bravo and Astrologer, all felt the importance 
of this truth : British power, mcayis cruelty to the fallen, murder to the 
unarmed brave. They all remembered, that Paoli was yet red with the 



136 TilE WISSAIIIKON. 

blood of massacre, while Walnut Street goal, every morning sent its dis- 
figured dead to Potter's field. 

Tlierefore the old man buried his face in his hands, therefore Amable 
terriliud to the heart, sank crouching by the fireplace, while the bravo looked 
with his brutal sneer, upon both father and child. 

" Come girl — no trilling," exclaimed Marcham, as he approached the 
crouching maiden. " You must go with me, or your good father rests in gaol 
before daybreak. Take your choice my pretty lass ?" 

The father raised his face from liis hands. He was lividly pale, yet his 
blue eyes shone with unusual light. His lip quivered, while his teeth, 
closely clenched, gave a wild and unearthly aspect to his countenance. 
I All hope was over ! 

The intellect of the old man was, for a moment, threatened witli ruin, 
utter and withering, as the dark consciousness of his helplessness pressed 
like lead upon his brain. 

At this moment a footstep was Iieard, and lo ! A man of singular cos- 
tume came through the feathery clouds of smoke, and stood between the 
bravo and the father. 

A man of almost giant height, with a war-blanket folded over his breast, 
a wanipiim belt about his waist, glittering with tomahawk and knife, while 
his folded arms enclosed a rifle. 

The aquiline nose, the bold brow, the head destitute of hair, with a single 
plume rlsuig from the crown, the eagle-nose and clear full eye — there was 
quiet miijcsty in the stranger's look. He was an Indian, yet his skin was 
bronzed, not copper-colored ; his eye was sharp and piercing, yet blue as a 
summer sky. 

For a moment he surveyed the scene. The Captain shrank back from 
his gaze. The old man felt a sudden hope dawning over his soul. The 
young woman looked up, and gazed upon the Indian's stern visage without 
a fear. 
J There was a pause like the silence of the grave. 

At last advancing a step, the Indian lianded a paper to Gerald Morton. 
He spoke, not in the forest-tongue, but in clear bold English, with a deep, 
gutteral accent. 

"The Ameiican Chief sends this to his father. He bade me deliver it, 
and I have done his bidding." 

Then wheeling on his heel, he confronted the Captain : 
'' " Give me that sword. Tiie sword is for the brave man, not for the 
coward. A brave man seeks warriors to display his courage : a coward 
frightens old men and weak women. Will the coward in a red coat give 
me the sword, or must I take it ?" 

Tliere was a withering scorn in the Red-Man's tone. The British officer 
stood as if appalled by a ghost. 

" Your brothers are tied, as cowards should be tied, who put on the war- 



THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 137 

rior's dress to do a coward's work," exclaimed ihe Indian. " My warriors 
came on tiieni, captured them and tied them togetiier liiie wolves in a pack. 
Come ! We are waiting for you. To-night you must go to Valley Forge." 

There was something so strange in the clear English of this stern Indian, 
that the bravo stood spell-bound, as though it was but the voice of a dream. 

At this moment, two savage forms drew near, through the smoke, which 
rolling away from the door, now hung coiled in wreaths near the ceiling. 
Without a word, the Briton was led from the room. He made no resistance, 
for the tomahawk of an Indian has an unpleasant glitter. As he disappeared, 
his face gathered one impotent scowl of malice, like a snake that hisses 
when your foot is on its head. The Astrologer skulked slowly at his heels. 

The Indian was alone with father and ilaughter. 

He looked from one to the other, while an expression of deep emotion 
came over his bronzed face. 

At last flinging down his rifle, he extended one hand to the old man, one 
to the crouching woman. 

" Father!" he groaned in a husky voice : " Sister ! I have come at last !" 

As though a strange electric impulse throbbed from their hearts and joined 
them all together, in a moment the old man, his daughter and the Indian 
lay clasped in each other's arms. 

For some few moments, sobs, tears, broken ejaculations ! At last the 
old man bent back the Indian's head, and with flashing eyes, perused his 
image in his face. The daughter too, without a fear, clung to his manly 
arm, and looked tenderly up into his blue eyes. 

" Father, sister ! It is a long story, but I will tell it in a few words. A 
M'hite man, whom you had done wrong, stole me from your house thirty- 
three years ago. He was an outcast from his kind and made his home ia 
the wigwam of the Indian. While the warriors taught me to bend the bow 
and act a warrior's part, he learned me the tongue of my father. I grew up 
at once a white man and an Indian. But, two moons ago, the white man, 
whose name we never knew, but who was called the Grey-hawk, told me 
the secret of my father's name. Then, he died. I was a warrior; a chief 
among warriors. I came toward the rising of the sun to see my father and 
my sister. One day I beheld the huts of Valley Forge — I am now a warrior 
under the American chief. My band have done him service for many a day; 
he is a Man. Father, I see you ! Sister, I love you ! But ask no more | 
for never will the White Indian forsake his forest to dwell within walls — never 
will the Chief lay down his blanket, to put on the dress of the white race !" 

The Sister looked tenderly into her brother's foce. The old man, as if 
bis oidy wish had been full'iiUed, gazed long and earnestly on the bronzed 
countenance of his child. He murmured the name of the man whom he 
had darkly, terribly wronged. Then v.'ilh a prayer on his lips, he sank 
back in tiie arm chair. 
He was dead. 



138 THE WISSAIIIKON. 

On his glassy eye and fallen jaw streamed the warmth of the fire, while 
at his foot knelt the white-Indian, his bronzed face glowinij in the same 
beam, that revealed his sister's face, pale as marble and bathed in tears. 

\ 
Months passed away. AVintor with its ice and snow was gone. Laurel 

Hill was (frecn and shadowy with siiinnicr. Tiie deer browsed quietly 

along tiie lawn of the old mansion, and llie river, which the Indian called 

Manayong, went laughing and shouting over its rocky bed. 

It was summer, and Sir William Howe had deserted Philadelphia, when 
one day, there came a messenger to Congress, in the old State House, that 
a bailie had been fought near Monmouih. A batde in which Sir William 
learned, that Freedom had survived the disease and nakedness and starvation 
of Valley Forge. 

On that sunmicr day, a young woman sat alone in the chamber of the old 
mansion, where her father had died six months before. Alone by tiie win- 
dow, the breeze playing with her golden hair, the suidight — stealing ray by 
ray through thick vines — falling in occasional gleams over her young face. 

Ilor blue eye was fixed upon a miniature, which pictured a manly face, 
with dark eyes and raven hair, relieved by the breast of a manly form, clad 
in the blue uniform of the Continental Army. It was the Betrothed of 
Amable ; the war once over, freedom won, they were to be married. He 
M'as far away with the army, but her voiceless prayers invoked blessings on 
his head. 

"While the maiden sat there, contemplating her lover's picture, a form 
came stealing from the shadows of the room : a face looked over her 
shoulder. 

It was the White-Indian in his war-blanket. 

His face became terribl)' a<!.itatcd as he beheld that picture. 

At last the maiden heard his hard-drawn breath. Sbe turned her Kead 
and greeted him at first with a smile, but when she beheld the horror, 
glooming over his face, siie felt her heart grow cold. 

" Wlience come you, brother ?" 

" Monmouth 1" 

" Have you no message for me ? No word from 

The Brother extended his hand, and laid the hilt of a broken sword gently 
on her bosom. 

He said no word, but she knew it all. She saw the blood upon the hilt ; 
she saw her brother's face, she knew that she was Widow and Virgin at 
once. 

It was a dark hour in that old Mansion on the Schuylkill. 

A grave)'ard among the hills, a small space of green earth separated from 
the forest by a stone wall. In the midst, a wild cherry tree, Hinging its 
shadow over a white tombstone and a new made grave. 



THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 139 

Sunset steals Ihroiigh these branches, over the white tombstone, down 
into the recesses of the new-made grave. What is this we see beside the 
grave ? A man in Indian attire, bending over a coflin, on whose plate is 
inscried a single word — 

AM ABLE. 

Ah, do not lift the lid, ah, do not uncover that cold face to the light! Ah, 
do not lift the lid, for then the breeze will play with her tresses ; then the 
air will kiss her cheek. Iler marble cheek, now colorless forever. 

The While-Indian knelt there, tlie last of his race, bending over the corse 
of that fair girl. No tear in his eye, no sob in his bosom. All calm as 
stone, he bent there above Ids dead. Soon the coffin was lowered ; anon 
the grave was filled. The star-beams looked solenndy down through the 
trees, upon the grave of that fair girl. 

The Indian broke a few leaves from the wild cherry tree, and went on 
his way. 

He was never seen on the banks of the Manayong again. 

Long years afterward, in the far wilds of the forest, a brave General who 
had won a battle over the Indian race, stood beside an oaken tree, contem- 
plating with deep sorrow, the corse of a friendly savage. He lay there, 
stilT and cold, the wreck of a giant man, his bronzed face, lighter in hue 
than the visages of his brother Indians. He lay there, with blanket and 
wampum belt and tomahawk about him, the rifle in his grasp, the plume 
drooping over his bared brow. 

He had died, shielding the brave General from tiie tomahawk. Yes, 
with one sudden bound, he sprang before him, receiving on his breast, the 
blow intended for Mad Antony Wayne. 

And AVayne stood over him — his eyes wet with a soldier's tears — sor- 
rowing for Iiim as for a rude Indian. 

Litde did he think that a white man lay there at his feet! 

Ah, who can tell the magic of those forests, the wild enchantment of the 
chase, the savage witchery of the Indian's life ? Here was a man, a white 
man, who, bred to Indian life, had in his mature manliood, rejected wealth 
and civilization, for the deep joy of the wigwam and the prairie, and now 
lay stretched — a cold corse, yet a warrior corse — on the banks of the Miami ; 
AN Indian to the last. 



Note. — Tliis fine old mnnsion, at the Falls of the Schuylkill, was formerly the 
residence of General Milllin. It is now the country seat of Andrew M'Mackin. 
Em]., (Ediicir of ihe Courier.) The view frcmi the porch of this mansion, is renowned 
for its heauty. It is proper to mention, that ihe old bridge was consumed by fire 
a year or two since. The railroad bridge — a strueiure in modern style — gives nddi- 
lii)nal beauty to the prospect. The supcrnalural part of this legend, is not to be 
laid 10 the author's invention, but to the superslilion of the Era, in which it occurred. 
Tln.^ nroiind — ainund ihe Falls, on the shores of the Schuylkill — is rich in legends of 
the most picluresque and romantic character. 



MO THE WISSAHIKON. 



X.-THE ORAVFAARD OF CERMANTOWN. 

In Cicnnantowti there is ;ui old-time graveyard. No gravelled walks, 
no tleliealo sculplurings of marble, no hot-beds planted over corruption are 
there. It is an old-time grave\'ard, defended from the liiglixvay and eneirc- 
ling fields by a tliiek stone wall. On llie north and west it is shadowed by 
a range of trees, the sondne verdnro of the pine, the leafy magnificence of 
the maple and hnrse-cliesnut, mini^lin;^ in one rich mass of foliage. Wild 
flowers are in that graveyard, and tangled vines. It is white with tomb- 
stones. They spring up, like a host of spirits from the green graves ; they 
seem to struggle with each other for space, for room. The lettering on these 
tombstones, is in itself, a rude history. Sonic are marked with nide words 
in Dutch, some in German, one or more in Latin, one in Indian ; others in 
English. Some bend down, as if hiding their rugged faces from the light, 
some start to one side ; here and there, rank grass chokes them from the 
light and air. 

Yon may talk to me of your fashinnnhlc graveyards, where Death is 
made to look pretty and silly and fanciful, but for me, this one old grave, 
yard, witli its rank grass and crowded tombstones, has more of (lod and 
Immortality in it, than all your elegant ccmetrics together. I love its soil: 
its stray wild flowers are omens to me, of a pleasant sleep, taken by weary 
ones, who were faint with living too long. 

It is to mc, a holy thought, that here my bones will one day repose. For 
here, in a lengthening line, extend the tombstones, sacred to the memory of 
my fathers, far back in to time. They sleep here. The summer day may 
dawn, the winter storm may howl, and still they sleep on. No careless 
eye looks over these walls. There is no gaudiness of scidpture to invito 
the lounger. A| for a pic nic party, in an old graveyard like this, it would 
be blasphemy. None come .save those who have friends here. Sisters 
come to talk quietly with the gliost of sisters ; children to invoke tlic spirit 
of that Mother gone home; I, too sometimes, panting to get free from the 
city, come here to talk with my sisters — for two of mine are here — with my 
father — for that clover blooms above his grave. 

It seems to ine, too, when bending over that grave, that the Mother's 
form, awakened from her distant grave, beneath the sod of Delaware, is also 
here! — Here, to coniniune with the dead, whom she loved while living; 
liere, with the spirits of my fathers ! 

I cannot get rid of the thought that good spirits love that graveyard. For 
all at once, when you enter its walls, you feel sadder', belter ; more satisfied 
with life, yet less reluctant to die. It is such a pleasant spot, to lake a long 
repose. I have seen it in winter, when there was snow upon the graves, 
and die sleigh-bells tinkled in the street. Then calmly and tenderly upon 
llie white tombstones, played and lingered the cold moon. 



TUK CJRAVIOYARD OF OERMANTOWN. 141 

III FMiiiniri-, loo, wlicii iIk! Iciivcs wci'O on llio trees, ;iiiil iIk^ graHH ii]ioii 
tlu; sod, when till! cliiij) ol' llu.' riii-lict niid knty-did hrtiUo shrilly over llio 
gravcH ihroiiyh tho Hil(:iic(! ol' iiij,'lil. In niirly n[)rin(r, whoii lliorc wna Bcarco 
a lihul(! (jT |rr:iss to BlniKirJo iifriiiiist ihi! north wimi, ;iiid lata in lidl when 
Nov(Miil)(M' lia|)lizi;H you willi lior (^loiid ofglooiii, 1 liavo hucii ihcrt'. 

And in winter and snniiner, in fall and N|irini^, in cnlin or jitoirn, in Kiek- 
noss (n- healih, in every eliani;(! oriliiH yrc^at Jilay, called life, doe.f my heart 
go out to tiiat (graveyard, an tlioiijfh |)art ol' it was already there. 

Nor do I love it tin; lenn, lieeanHO on every hlado ol' grass, in every dower, 
that wildly hloonis there, \ on iiiid written : — " This soil is haered Irom 
creeds. Here rests the Indian and the whiter man ; here sleep in one sod, 
the Catllolie, l'r(;sliylerian, (inaker, Methodist, Lutheran, Meinn)niMt, Deist, 
Jnlidcl. ![<■«;, creeds forgf)tleu, all are men and wouhmi again, and not ono 
hut is a hinijilu child of (Jod." 

This graveyard was eslahlislied hy men <if all creeds, more than a cenlnry 
ajro. May that day hn darkncstt, when creeds shall enter this rudi! gate, 
lletter had that man never heen horn, who shall dare [lollutc this soil with 
the earthly clamor ol' seel. I'lit on tin' man, who shall repair this wall, or 
keep this graveyard sacred rr(jni the hoofs (d' iinprovejiieiit, who shall do his 
best to kei:p our (dd gravej-ard what it is, on that man, he the hlessings of 
flod ; may his daughters he virtuous and beautiful, his sons gifted and brave. 
In his last hour, may the voices of aiigtds sing hymns to his passing soul. 
If there was hut one llovver in the world, 1 wmild phmt it on that man's 
grave. 

It was in November, not in chill, gloomy November, but in golden No- 
vendier, when Piiradisr; opens her windows to us, ajid wafts the Indian 
Snnnner over the; laml, that I oamc to the gravi.'yard. 

There was a nndlow Boftncss in the air, a golden glow uixm the sky, 
glossy, gorgeous riehiioss of foliage on the trees, when I went in. It was 
in the afternoon. The sun was half-way down the sky. Everything was 
still. A religious silence dwelt all about the graveyard. 

An aijcil man, with a rosy countenani'c, and snow-wliiln Iiair, sat on a 
grave. His coal was strait and collarhiss, his hat broad in the rim. At 
once I kiKiW him f(n- a Disciple of Saint William, the Patron Saint of Penn- 
sylvania. His eyes were iixed ui)on sonielhing at his feet. I drew nigh, 
and Ixdield two skeletons resting on tin; grass near a new-made grave. 

'i'he old (iuaker greeted ino kindly, an<l I sat down opposite on a grassy 
mound. The skeletons presented a strange, a meaning sight. Around 
their crninbrmg bones were lliittcring the remnants of solclic.'rs' uniform, 
liuttons, stamped widi an eagle, pieces of the breast-belt, fragments of mili- 
tary boots — ah, sad relics of the fight of Clermantown ! The simlight 
streamed slowly over their skulls, lii.djling up the hollow orliits, where onco 
sIkhw: the eyes ; and over the bones of the hand, [irotruding from the ertinib- 
ling unif(nin. 

10 



142 THE ^VISSAIIIKON. 

We sat for a long while in silence. 

At last tlie Quaker spoke. 

" I am tryinc to rrmember wliicli is John and which is Jacob ?" said he. 

" John ?— Jacob >." 

" Truly so. For I knew them well. I was but a youth then — on the 
day of the battle, thee minds ? The fourtli of tiie tenth month, 1777 \ 
Jacob was a fine )°oung man, willi liglit curly hair; he was married. John 
was dark-liaired, sotnelhiiiir younger than Jacob, but quite as jjood looking. 
Tlicy were both with Washington at JSkippack ; wilii him they came to tlie 
battle — " 

" Ab, you remember tlie bailie ?" 

" As well as if it happened last week. Did thee ever see a small, one 
story house, about half-way down Germantown, with I'l'S on its gable? 
Jacob's wife lived there. On the morning of the battle, about ten o'clock, 
she was standing in the door, her babe resting on her bosom. There was 
a thick fog in the air. She was listening to the firing. I stood on the 
opposite side, thinking what a fine-looking wife she was, for does thee mind, 
she was comely. Ilcr hair was glossy and brown ; her eyes dark. She 
was not very tall, but a wondrous pleasant woman to look upon. As I 
stood looking at her, who should come running down the road, but Jacob 
there, with this same uniform on, and a gun in his hand. 1 can see him 
yet; and hear his voice, as plain as I now hear my own. 

" ' Hannah ! Hannah '.' he cried, ' we've beat 'em !' And he ran towards 
her, and she held the babe out to him, but just at tliat moment, he fell in the 
middle of the road, torn almost in two by a cannon ball, or some devil's- 
work of that kind. Young man, it was a very sad sight ! To see that 
poor Jacob, running to kiss his wife and child, and just as the wife calls and 
the babe holds out its little hands — ah !" 

The Quaker rubbed his eye, blaming the road side dust for the tear that 
glimmered there. 

" And John ?" 

" Poor John ! We found him after the battle in Chew's field, lie was 
quite dead — look ! Thee can see the bullet bole in his brain." 

And with bis cane, he pointed to ihe scull of tlie soldier. 

'• We buried them together. They were fine-looking young men, and 
many of us shed tears, when we put the sod upon their brows." 

"Sod I Had you no coliins J" 

The old man opened his eyes. 

" Had thee seen the village people, taking their barn-doors ofT their hinges 
so that tlicy niiglit carry away the dead bodies by dozens at a time, and 
bury them in the fields, whenever a big hole was dug — had thee seen this, 
thee would'nt ask such a question !" 

" Was there not a great deal of glory on that day?" 

" If thee means, that it was like an election parade, or a fourth of July 



TIIK GRAVEYARD OF GERMANTOWN. I43 

gathering, I can tell thee, lliere was not much glory of that kinj. If thee 
means that it made my blood boil to see the bodies of ray neiglibors carried 
by, some dead, some groaning yet, some howling mad with pain ; others 
with legs torn ofl', others with arms rent at the very shoulder, here one with 
his jaw broken, there another with his eyes put out; — if thee means that 
boiling of the blood, caused by sights like these, then I can tell thee, there 
was plenty oi glory T' 

" The battle was bloody then ?" 

" Did tliee ever see how rich the grass grows on Chew's lawn ? How 
many hearts spent their last blood to fatten that soil ?" 

" You helped to bury the dead ?" 

" I remember well, that thy grandfather — he is buried yonder — took hold 
of one corner of a barn-door, while I and two friends took the others. There 
were some six or seven bodies piled crosswise, and huddled together on that 
barn-door. We took them to the fields and buried them in a big pit. I 
remember one Aiir-faccd British officer; his rallied shirt was red with l)lood. 
He was a fine-looking young man, and doubtless had a wife or sister in Eng- 
land. I pitied him very much." 

" Were you near the scene of conflict ? I do not wish to imply that you 
bore arms, for your principles forbid the thought." 

" I can remember standing in my father's door, when a wounded soldier 
pursued by another, fell at my feet crying ' quarter !' I remember that I 
seized the pursuer's musket, and rapped him over the head, after which he 
let the wounded soldier be." 

" Did you hurt him much ?" 

" He did'nt move afterward. Some evil people wished to make it ap- 
pear, that I killed him. But thee sees that was false, for he may have been 
very tired running and died from the heat. However, I hit him with all 
my strength." 

The Quaker held out his right arm, which was an arm of iron, even in 
its withered old age. 

" What was he ? British or American ?" 

" He was dressed in red," meekly responded the Quaker. 

" Did you see General Washington during the light V 

" I saw a tall man of majestic presence riding a grey horse. I saw him 
now go in the mist; now come out again; now here, now there. One 
time I saw liim, when he reigned his horse in front of Chew's wall — he 
looked terrible, ibr his eyes seemed to frown, his lips were clenched; his 
forehead was disfigured by a big vein that seemed bursting from the skin. 
He was covered with dust and blood — his saddle-cloth was torn by bullets. 
I never forgot the look of that man, nor shall I, to the hour of my death. 
That man they told me was George Washington." 

" Why was he thus moved ?" 



144 THE WISSAIIIKON. 

" An aid-do.camp liail just tokl liim ihut one of his Generals was druuk 
under a hedge." 

" Did you see Cornwallis ?" 

" Tliat I did. lie was riding up the street, as fast as liis liorse could go 
— a handsome man, hut when I saw iiini, his face was wliile as a meal-hag. 
Thee sees lie was a hrave man, hut friend Washington came on him before 
day, without timtly notice." 

There was a curious twitch about the Quaker's mouth. lie did not smile, 
but still it was a suspicious sliape for a Quaker's mouth. 

XI.— "REMEMBER I'AOI.I." 

IIisT ! — It is Still night ; the clear sky arches al)ove ; the dim woods are 
all around the field ; and in the centre of the meadow, resting on liie grass 
crisped by the autumnal frosts, .sleep the worn veterans of the war, dis- 
heartened by want, and wearied by the day's march. 

It is still night; ami the light of the scanty fire falls on wan faces, hol- 
low eyes, and sunken cheeks ; on tattered apparel, muskets unlit for use, 
and broken arms. 

It is still niglit ; and they snatch a feverish sleep beside the scanty lire, 
and lay them down to dream of a time when the ripe harvest shall no more 
be trodden down hy llic hlood-slained hoof — when the valley shall no more 
be haunted by the Trailnr-Refugcc — when Liberty and Freedom shall walk 
in broadcloth, instead of wandering about with the iinshodden feet, and the 
tattered rajjs of want. 

It is still niglit; and Mad Anthony Wayne watches while his soldiers 
sleep. 

He watches beside the camp-fire. You can mark his towering form, his 
breadth of shoulders, and his prominence of chest. You can see his face 
by the red light of the tire — that manly lace, with the broad forehead, the 
marked eye-brows, over-arching the deep hazel eye, that lightens and gleams 
as he gazes upon the men of his band. 

You can note the uniform of the Revolution — tlic wide coat of blue, 
varied hy the buckskin sword-belt, from which depends the sword that 
Wayne alone can wield, — the facings of bull', the buttons rusted by the dews 
of nii^ht, and the marcli-worn trooper's boots, reaching above his knees, 
Willi the stout iron spurs standing out from each heel. 

Hist ! The night is still, but there is a sound in yonder thicket. 

Look ! can yon see nothing ? 

No. The night is still — the defenceless Continentals sleep in the centre 
of the meadow — all around is dark. The sky above is clear, but the stars 
give forth no light. The wind sweeps around the meadow — dim and indis- 
tinct it sweeps, and is silent and still. I can see nothing. 

Place your car to the earth. Hear you nothing ? 



"REMEMBER PAOLI." 145 

Yes — yes. A slight sound — a distant rnnibling. Tlicre is tliniider growl- 
ing ill the bosom of tlic eaiih, hut it is distant. It is like die inunniir on 
the ocean, ere the terrilde white squall sweeps away tlie commerce of a na- 
tion — but it is distant, verj- distant. 

Now look fortii on the niglit. Cast your eye to the Uiicket — see you 
nothing ? 

Yes — there is a gleam like the light of the fire-fly. Ha ! It lightens on 
the night — that quivering gleam ! It is the Hash of swords — the glittering 
of arms ! 

" Charge upon die Rebels ! Upon them — over them — no quarter — no 
quarter !" 

Watcher of the night, watcher over the land of tlie New World, watching 
over the fortunes of the stjirved chihiren of Freedom — what see you now ? 

A liand of armed men, mounted on stout steeds, with swords in their up- 
lifted hands. They sweep from the thicket ; they encompass the meadow i 
ihev surround the Rqhel host ! 

Tiie gallant Lord Grey rides at their head. Ilis voice rings out clear 
and loud upon the frosty 'air. 

" Root and branch, hip and thiirh, cut them down. Spare not a man — 
lioed never a cry for quarter. Cut thern down ! Charge for England and 
St. George !" 

And tiien there was uplifting of swords, and butchery of defenceless men, 
and tliere was a riding over the wounded, and a trampling over tlie faces of 
the dying. And then there was a cry for quarter, and the response — 

" To your throats take that ! We give you quarter, the quarter of the 
sword, accursed Rebels !" 

There was a moment, wdiose history was written with good sharp 
swords, on the visages of dying men. 

It was the moment when the defenceless Continental sprang up from his 
hasty sleep, into the arms of the merciless death ! It was the moment 
when Wayne groaned aloud wilii agony, as the sod of I'aoli was flooded 
witli a pool of blood that jioured from the corses of the slaughtered soldiers 
of Ilis band. It was the moment when the cry for quarter was mocked — 
when the Rebel clung in his despair to the stirrup of the Britisher, and 
clung in vain ; it was the moment when the gallant Lord Grey — that genfle- 
man, nobleman, Christian — whose heart only throbbed with generous im- 
pulses ; who from his boyhood, was schooled in the doctrines of mercy, 
halloed his war-dogs on to the slaughter, and shouted up to the star-lit 
Heavens, until the angels might grow sick of the scene — 

" Over them — over them — heed never a cry — heed never a voice ! Root 
and branch cut them down ! — No quarter !" 

It is dark and troubled night; and the Voice of Blood goes up to God, 
shrieking for vengeance ! 

It is morning ; sad and ghastly morning ; and the first sunbeams shine 



I.JC TIIK WISSAIIIKON. 

over llic Hold, wliicli was ycstorniglit a green meaclow^^ljie field tliat is now 
an Accldema — a field of blood, strewn with heaps of llie dead, arms torn 
from tlie liodv, eves hollowed from the sockets, faces turned to the earth, 
and liiiiied in hlooil. i;li:isily pii-tiires of dealli and pain, painted by the hand 
of the l?riton, for the bright sun to shine down upon, for nun to ajiplaud, 
for the King to approve, for God to avenge. 

It is a sad and ghastly morning ; and Wayne stands looking over the 
slanghtcred heaps, surrounded by the little band of survivors, and as he 
gazes on this scene of horror, the Voice of Hlood goes shrieking up to God 
for vengeance, and the ghosts of the slain darken the portals of Heaven, 
with their forms of woe, and their voices mingle with the Voice of lilood. 

Was the Voice of Blood answered ? 

A year passed, and the gliosis of the murdered looked down from the 
portals of the Uitseen, upon the ramparts of Stony Point. 

It is still night ; the stars look calmly down u|)on the broad Hudson ; and 
in the dim air of night towers the rock and tort of Stony Point. 

The Britishers have retired to rest. 'I'hey sleep in their warm, quiet 
beds. They sleep with pleasant dreams of American maidens dishonored, 
and American fathers, with grey hairs dabbled in blood. They shall have 
itierrier dreams anon, I trow. Aye, aye ! 

All is quiet around Stony Point : the sentinel leans idly over the wall 
that bounds his lonely walk ; he gazes down the void of darkness, until his 
glance falls upon the broad and inaguificcut Hudson. He hears nothing — 
he sees nothing. 

It is a pity for that sentinel, that his eyes are not keen, and his glance 
piercing. Had his eye-sight been but a little keener, he might have seen 
Death creeping tip that rampart in some hundred shapes — be might have 
seen the long talon-like fingers of the skeleton god clutching for his own 
plump British throat. But his eye-sight was not keen — more's the pity for 
him. 

Pity it was, that the sentinel could not hear a little more keenly. Had 
his ears been good, be might have heard a lillle whisper that went iVom two 
hundred toiitrues, around the ramparts of Stony I'oint. 

" General, what shall be the watch-word ?" 

And then, had the sentinel inclined his ear over the ramparts, and listened 
very attentively indeed, he might have heard the answer, sweeping up to 
the Heavens, like a voice of blood— 

" Uemember Paoli !" 

Ho — ho ! And so Paoli is to bo remembered — and so the Voice of 
Blood shrieked not in the ears of God in vain. 

And so the vengeance for Paoli is creeping up the ramparts of the fort ! 
Ho — lio ! I'iiy Lord Grey were not here to see the sport ! 

The sentinel was not blessed with supernatural sight or hearing ; he did 



"REMEMBER TAOLI." I47 

not see the figures creeping up the ramparts ; lio did not licar their whispers, 
until a rude hand chitchcd hiui round tiie lliroat, and up to tiie Heavens 
swept the thunder-shout — 

" Remember Paoli !" 

And then a rude bayonet pinned him to the wood of the ramparts, and 
then the esplanade of the fort, and its rooms and its halls were tilled with 
silent avengers, and then came Britishers rushing from their beds, crying for 
quarter, and then ihcy had it — the quarter of J'aoli ! 

Aiul then, through the smoke, and the gloom, and the bloodshed of that 
terrilile night, with the light of a torch now falling on his face, with the 
gleam of starlight now giving a spectral appearance to his features, swept on, 
right on, over heaps of dead, one magnilicent form, grasping a stout broad- 
sword in his right hand, which sternly rose, and sternly fell, cutting a 
British soldier down at every blow, and laying them along the floor of the 
fort, in the puddle of their own hireling blood. 

Ghosts of Paoli — shout! are you not terribly avenged ? 

" Spare me — I have a wife — a child — they wait my return to England ! 
Quarter — Quarter !" 

" I mind me of a man named Shoelmire — he had a wife and a child — a 
mother, old and grey-haired, waited his return from the wars. On the night 
of I'aoli, lie cried for quarter ! Such quarter I give you — Remember Paoli '." 

" Save me — quarter !" 

IIow that sword hisses through the air ! 

" Remember Paoli !" 

' I have a grey-haired father ! Quarter !" 

" So had Daunton at Paoli ! Oh, Kemcmhor Paoli !" 

"Spare me — you see I have no sword ! — Quarter !" 

" Friend, I would spare thee if I dared. But the Ghosts of Paoli nerve 
my arm — ' We had no swords at Paoli, and ye butchered us !' they shriek." 

" Oh, Rkmkmbku Paom !" 

And as the beams of the rising moon, streaming tlirough yonder narro\r 
W'ndow, for a moment light up the brow of the Avenger — dusky with bat- 
tle-smoke, red with blood, deformed by passion — behold ! That sword 
describes a fiery circle in the air, it hisses down, sinks into the victim's 
skull ? No ! 

His arm falls nerveless by liis side ; the sword, that grim, rough blade, 
dented with the records of the fight of Brandywine, clatters on the floor. 

" It is my duty — the Ghosts of Paoli call to nie — but I cannot kill you !' 
shouts the American Warrior, and his weaponless hands are extended to 
the trembling Briton. 

All around is smoke, and darkness, and blood ; the cry for quarter, and 
the death-sentence, Remember Paoli ! but here, in the centre of the scene 
of slaughter— yes, in the centre of that flood of moonlight, jjouring throun-h 
the solitary window, behokl a strange and impressive sight : 



H8 THE WISSAHIKON. 

'I'lie knncling fi)riii — n irrpy-li;iiriHl man, who lias grown hoary doing 
murder in tlic nanio of Good King George, — his iiands uplifted in trembling 
supplicalion, his eyes starling from the dilating lids, as he shrieks for the 
liKTi'V that ho never gave ! 

'J'he figure towering ahove him, with the Continental uniform fluttering 
in ribands over his broad chest, his hands and face red with blood and 
darkened with the stain of powder, the veins swelling from his bared throat, 
the eye glaring from his compressed brow — 

Such were the figures disclosed by the sudden glow of moonlight ! 

And yet from that brow, dusky with powder, red with blood, there broke 
the gleam of mercy, and yet those liands, dripping with crimson stains, 
were extended to lift the cringing liriton from the dust. 

" Look ye — old man — at I'aoli — " and that hoarse voice, heard amid the 
roar of midaiglit conflict, grew ticnudous as a child's, when it s|)oke those 
fatal words — at I'aoli ; " even through the darkness of that terrible night, I 
beheld a boy, ouly eighteen years old, clinging to the stirrup of Lord Grey ; 
yes, by die light of a jjislol-flash, I beheld his eyes glare, his hands quiver 
over his head, as he shrieked for ' Quarter !' " 

"And he spared him ?" faltered the Briton. 

" Now, mark you, this buy had been consigned to my care by his 
mother, a brave American woman, who had sent this last hope of lier 
widowed heart forth to battle " 

" And he spared him — " again faltered the Briton. 

" 'J'he same pistol, which flashed its red light over his pale face, and 
quivering hands, sent the bullet through his brain. Lord Grey held that 
pistol. Lord Grey heard the cry for mercy, Lord Grey beheld the young 
face trampled into mangled flesh by his horse's hoofs ! And pow, sir — 
with that terrible memory of Paoli stamped upon my soul — now, while that 
young face, widi the red wound between the eyes, passes before me, I 
spare your life ; — there lies my sword — I will not take it up again ! Cling 
to me, sir, and do not ])art for an instant from my side, for my good soldiers 
have keen memories. I may forget, but hark ! Do you hear them ? 
They do not massacre defenceless men in cold blood — ah, no ! Tney 
only — 

" REMEMBER PAOLI !" 



BOOK THIRD. 

BENEDICT ARNOLD. 



(149) 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 



I.— THE MOTHER AND HER BABE. 

The angels of God look down from the sky to witness the deep tender- 
ness of a mother's love. Tlie angels of God look down to witness that 
sight which angels love to see — a mother watching over her sleeping bahe. 
Yes, if even these awful intelligences, which are but little above man, and 
yet next to God, circling there, deep after deep, far through the homes of 
eternity, bend from the sky to witness a scene of human bliss and woe, that 
sight is the deep agony of a mother's love as she watches o'er her sleeping 
child ! 

The deep agony of a mother's love ? Yes ! For in that moment, when 
gazing upon the child— smiling upon it as it sleeps — does not a deep agony 
seize the mother's soul, as she tries to picture the future life of her babe? — 
whether that child will rise in honor and go down to deatli in glory, or 
whether the dishonored life and unwept death will be its heritage ? 

Ail, the sublimity of the heart is there, in that mother's love, which even 
angels bend down to look upon. 

One hundred years ago, in a far New England town, a mother, with her 
babe in her arms, stole sofdy through the opened doors of a quaint old vil- 
lage cliurch, and knelt beside the altar. 

Yes, while llie stillness of the Sabbath evening gathered like a calm from 
heaven around her, — while a glimpse of the green graveyard came through 
the unclosed windows, and the last beam of the setting sun played over the 
rustic steeple, tliat mother knelt alone, and placed lier sleeping boy upon 
the sacramental altar. 

That mother's face was not beautiful — care had been too busy there — 
yet there was a beauty in that uplifted countenance, in those upraised eyes 
of dark deep blue, in that kneeling form, witii tiie clasped hands pressed 
against the agitated bosom, — a beauty holier than earth, like that of Mary, 
the Virgin Mother. 

And why comes this Mother here to this lonely church, in this twilight 
hour, to lay her babe upon the altar, and kneel in silence there ? 
Listen to her prayer. 

She prays the Father, yonder, to guide the boy through life, to make him 
a man of honor, a disciple of the Lord. 

Wliile these faltering accents fall from her tongue, behold ! There, on 
the vacancy of the twilight air, she beholds a vision of that boy's life, act 

(151) 



152 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

crovvJing on act, scene on scene, until lier eyes burn in their sockets, and 
tlie tliiciv sweat stands in beads upon her brow. 

First, lier pale face is stamped with fear. She beholds her boy, now 
grown to young maubood, standing upon a vessel's deck, far out upon tiie 
deep waters. 'J'he waves iieave around hiin, and meet above the mast, and 
yet that boy is firm. 'I'iie red lightning from yon dark cloud, comes quiv- 
ering down tlie mainmast, and yet his cheek does not pale, his breast does 
not shrink. Yes, wiiilc the stout sailors fall cowering upon the deck, that 
boy stands linn, and laughs at the storjn — as liiough liis spirit rose lo meet 
the liglilniiig in its coming, and grapple witli the thunderbolt in its way. 

This vision passes. 

The mother, kneeling there, beside the sacramental altar, beholds another 
scene of her boy's life — another and another. At last, with eyes swimming 
in tears of joy, she beiiolds a scene, so glorio\is drawn there upon the twi- 
light air — her boy grow'n to hardy manliood, riding amid eml)atded legions, 
with the victor's laurel upon his brow — the praises of a nation ringing in his 
ears — a scene so glorious, that her heart is filled to bursting, and that deep 
" I thank tiiee, oh my God !" falls tremulously from her lips. 

Tiie next scene, right after tiie scejie of glory — it is dark, crushin!:, horri- 
ble ! The mother starts appalled to her feet — her siiriek cpiivers through 
tlie lonely churcli — she spreads forth her hands over the sleeping babe — 
she calls to God ! 

" Father in Heaven ! take, O lake this child while he is yet innocent ! 
Let him not live to be a man — a demon in humanshape — a nirse to hit race .'" 

And as she stands liiere, quivering and pale, and cold with horror — look ! 
That child, laid there on the sacramental altar, opens its clear dark eyes, 
and claps its tiny hands, and smiles ! 

Tliat child was Benedict Arnold. 

Near half a century jiad passed away. It was night in that New Eng- 
land town, where, forty-five years before, that mother, in the calmness of 
the Sabbath evening, brought her babe and laid it on the altar. 

It was midnight. The village girl had bidden her lover a last good-night, 
that good old father had lifted up his voice in prayer, with his children all 
around him — it was midnight, and the village people slept soundly in 
their beds. 

All at once, rising from the deep silence, a horritl yell went up to the 
midnight sky. All at once a blaze of fire burst over the roof. Look yon- 
der ! — That father murdered on his own threshhold — that mother stabbed 
in the midst of her children — that maiden kneeling there, pleading for life, 
as the sharp steel crashes into her brain ! 

Then the blood flows in the startled streets — then British troopers flit to 
and fro in the red light — then, rising in the centre of the town, that quiet 
village church, with its rustic steeple, towers into the blaze. 



THE MOTHER AND THE BABE. 153 

And there — oh, Father of Mercy ! — tliere, in that steeple, stands a soldier, 
wiih a dark cloak half-wrapped around his red uniform — yes, there lie stands, 
with folded arms, and from that height surveys with a calm joy, the horrid 
scene of massacre below. 

Now, motlier of Arnold, look from Heaven and weep ! Fortj'-five years 
ago, you laid your child upon the sacramental altar of this church, and now 
lie stands in yonder steeple, drinking in with a calm joy, the terrible cries 
of old men, and trembhng women, and little children, hewn down in hideous 
murder, before his very eyes. 

Look there, and learn what a devil Remorse can make of such a man ! 

Here are the faces he has known in Childhood — the friends of his man- 
liood — the matrons, who were litde girls when he was a boy — here lliey 
are, hacked by British swords, and he looks on and smiles ! 

At last, the cries are stilled in death ; the last flash of the burning town 
glares over the steeple, and there, attired in that scarlet uniform, his bronzed 
face stamped with the conflict of hideous passions — there, smiling still amid 
tlie scenes of ruin and blood, stands Benedict Arnold. 

That was the last act of the Traitor on our sod. In a few days he sailed 
froiii our shores, and came back no more. 

And now, as lie goes yonder, on his awful way, while millions curse the 
echo of his name, in yonder hniely room two orphans bless that name. 

What is this you say ? Orphans bless the name of Arnold ? Yes, my 
friends — for tliere was a night when those orphans were without a crust of 
bread, while their father lay mouldering on the sod of Bunker lldl. Yes, 
the Legislature of Massachusetts had left these children to the cold mercy of 
the worhl, and that when they bore his name who fell on Bunker Hill — 
the immortal Warren. 

While they sate there, hungry and cold, no fire on the hearth, not a crust 
of bre.iil upon the table, their eyes fixed upon the tearful face of the good 
■woman who gave them the shelter of a roof, a letter came, and in its folds 
five hundred dollars from Benedict Arnold. 

This at the very moment when he was steeling his soul to the guilt of 
Treason. This at the moment when his fortune had been scattered in ban- 
quets and pageants — when assailed by clamorous creditors, he was ready to 
sell his soul for gold. 

From the last wreck of his fortune, all that had been left from the para- 
sites who led upon him, while they could, and then stung the hand that fed 
them, he took five luuiil ed dollars and sent them to the children of his 
comrade, the |)atriot Warren. 

Is it true, that when the curse of all wronged orphans quivers up yonder, 
the Angels of God shed tears at that sound of woe ? Then, at the awful 
Lour when Arnold's soul went up to judgment, did the prayer's of Warren's 
orphan children go up there, and like Angels, plead for hiin with God. 



IHi BENEDICT AKNOLD. 



n.-TIin DRUOGIST OK NEW HAVEN. 



T-r.T US look nt lii:! life between these periods ; let us follow the varied 
and tiimultuous course of forty-five years, :ind learn how the innocent and 
smiiiii!,' babe, became the Oiileast of his native land. 

The course of this strange history, will load us to look upon two men : 

First, a brave and noble man, whose hand was firm as his heart was true, 
at onec a Kiii;rht worthy of the brighlost days of chivalry, and a Soldier 

beloved by his coiinlr}'iuen ; honored by the friendship of Washington 

that man, — Rknedict .AnNoi.n. 

Then, a bandit and an outcast, a man panoplied in hideous crimes, so 
dark, so infamous, that my loii!,'ue falters as it speaks his name — I5i!m:dict 
Arnold. 

Let me confess, tlijt when I first selected this theme. I only thought of 
its melo-dramalic contrasts, its strong lights and deep shadows, its incidents 
of wild romance. 

But now, that I have learned the fearful lesson of this life, lot me frankly 
confess, that in the pages of history or fiction, there is no tragedy to com- 
pare with tiie plain history of Benedict Arnold. It is, in one word, a Par- 
adise Lost, brought down to our own limes and homes, and told in familiar 
language of everyday life. 'I'hrourjh its every page, aye from the smiling 
autumnal laiulscnpe of Kenebcc, from the barren rock of Quebec, or the 
green heights of Hudson, there glooms one horrid phantom, with a massive 
forehead and deep-set eyes, the Lucifer of the story Benedict Arnold. 

The man who can read his life, in all its details, without tears, has a 
heart harder than the roadside flint. 

One word in regard to the infancy of Arnold. 

You have doubtless seen, in the streets of our large cities, the painful 
spectacle of a beggar-women, tramping about with a deformed child in her 
arms, makinij a show of its deformity, exciting sympathy by the exhibition 
of its iiidcousncss ? Does the poor child fail to excite sj'mpntiiy, when 
attired in a jacket and trowsers, as a little boy ? Then, the gipsey conceals 
its deformed limbs under a frock, covers its wan and sickly face with a 
bonnet. 

And she changes it from to-day, making deformity always new, sickness, 
rags and ulcers always marketable. 

There is a class of men, who always remind me of this crafty beggar- 
woman. They are the journeymen historians, the petty compiler^ of pom- 
pous falsehood, who prevail in the vincinity of bookseller's kitchens, and 
acquire corpulence. 

As the begtrar-woman has her Deformed child, .so these Historians who 
work by the line aiul yard, have their certain class of Incidents, which they 
crowd into all their Compilations, whether Histories, Lectures, or Pictorial 



1 



THE DRUGGIST OF NEW HAVEN. 155 

abominations, dressing them somewhat variously, in order to suit the clianges 
of time and place. 

For example; the first English writers who undertook the history of 
Napoleon, propagated various stories about his infancy, which, in point of 
truth and tragic interest, remind us of Hlue-beard and Cock-robin. The 
same stories had been previously told of Alexander, Ca;sar, Riclilieu, and 
lately we have seen them revived in a new shape, in order to suit the in- 
fantile days of Santa Anna. 

These stereotyped fables — the Deformed children of History — are in fact, 
to be found in every Biography, written by an enemy. They may wear 
trousers in one history, put on a frock in another, but still cannot altogether 
hide their original features. Cloak it as you may, the Deformed child of 
history appears wherever we find it, just what it is, a puny and ridiculous 
libel. 

One of these Deformed children lurks in the current life of Arnold. 

It is the grave story of the youth of Benedict, being passed away in va- 
rious precocious atrocities. He strewed the road with pounded glass, in 
order that other little boys might cut their feet ; he fried frogs upon a bake- 
iron heated to an incredible intensity ; he geared flies in harness, decapitated 
grasshoppers, impaled " Katy-dids." 

So says the history. 

Is not this a very dignified, very solemn thing for the Historian's notice ? 

Why did he not pursue the subject, and state that at the age of two years, 
Benedict Arnold was deeply occupied in the pursuit of Latin, Sanscript^ 
Hebrew, Moral Philosophy and the Philosopher's stone ? 

Because the latter part of a man's life is made infamous by his crimes, 
must your grave Historian ransack Blue-beard and Cock-robin, in order to 
rake up certain delectable horrors, with which to adorn the history of his 
childhood ? 

In our research into Arnold's life, we must bear one important fact in 
mind. After he hud betrayed his country, it was deemed not only justi- 
fiable to chronicle every blot and spec in his character, but highly praise- 
u-orthy to tumble the overflowing inkstand of libel upon every vestige of 
his name. 

That he comes down to our time, with a single good deed adhering to his 
memory, has always seemed miraculous to me. 

With these introductory remarks, let us pursue the history. 

It was in the city of New Haven, on a cold day of April, 1775, that a 
man of some thirty-five years, stood behind a counter, an apron on his 
manly chest, mixing medicines, pasting labels on phials, and putting poisons 
in their places. 

Look well at this man, as he stands engaged in his occupation. Did you 
ever see a bolder brow — a deeper, darker, or more intensely brilliant eye — 



156 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

a more resoliitr lip or more determined chm ? Mark the massy outline of 
that lace iVoiii llie car lo lliG chin ; a world of iron will is written in that 
firm outline. 

'J'lie jjuir, iincloirs,'ed with the powder in fashion at this lime, falls back 
from his forehead in harsh masses ; its dark hue imparting a strong relief to 
the bold and warrior-like face. 

While this man stands at his counter, busy with pestle and mortar — hark ! 
Tliere is a nnirnuir along tlio streets of New Haven ; a crowd darkens 
under those aged elms ; the murmur deepens ; the Druggist became con- 
scious of four deep-muttered words : 

" lUitllc — Lexington — Ihilhh — lieaton .'" 

With one bound the Drugjisi leaps over the counter, rushes into the 
street and pushes his way through the crowd. Listen to that tumultuous 
niurnnir! A batde has been fought at I,exington, between the Urilish and 
the Americans ; or in other words, the handsomely attired minions of King 
George, have been soundly beaten by the plain farmers of New England. 
That murmur dee|)ens through the crowd, and in a moment the Druggist 
is in the centre of the scene. Two hiMidrcd men group round him, begging 
to be led against the British. 

But there is a difficulty ; the Common Council, using a privilege granted 
to all corporate bodies from immemorial time, to make laugliing-stocks of 
themselves, by a display of petty authority, have locked up all the arms. 

" Arnold," cried a patriotic citizen, uncouth in attire and speech: "We 
are willing to fight the Britishers, but the city council won't let us have 
any guns !" 

" Won't they ?" said the Druggist, with that sardonic sneer, which always 
made his enemies afraid : " 'J'licn our remedy is plain. Come ; let us 
take them !" 

Five minutes had not passed, before the city Council, knowing this 
Druggist to be a man of few words and quick deeds, yielded up the guns. 
That hour the Druggist became a soldier. 

Let us now pass over a month or more. 

It is a night in May. 

Look yonder, through the night 1 Do you see that tremendous rock, as 
it towers up ruggedly sublime, into the deep blue sky ? Yes, over the wide 
range of woods, over the silent fastnesses of the wilderness, over the calm 
waters of Lake George and the waves of Champlain, that rock towers and 
swells on the night, like an awful monument, erected by the lost Angels, 
when they fell from Heaven. 

And there, far away in tlic sky, the moon dwindled away to a slender 
thread, sheds over the blue vault and the deep woods and the tremendous 
rock, a light, at once sad, solemn, sepulchral. 

Do you see the picture ? Does it not stamp itself upon your soul, an 
image of terrible beauty ? Do you not feel the awful silence lliat broods there ? 



THE MARCH THROUGH THR WILDERNESS. 157 

On llie summit of that rod; llio IJritisli garrison are sleojiiiig, aye, slum- 
bcriiiy peacerully, under the comfortabU; inllueni;e of beef anil ale, in the 
impregnable fortress of Ticondcroga. From the topmost crag, the broad 
Banner of the Red Cross swings lazily against the sky. 

At this moment, there is a murmur far down in the darlc ravine. Let us 
look tiiere. A multitude of shadows come stealing into the dim light of the 
moon ; they cliiiib that im[)rc'guable rook ; they darken round tliat fortress 
gate. All IS still as deatli. 

Two liirurcs stand in the shadows of the fortress gate ; in that stern de- 
termined visage, you see the lirsl of llie green mountain boys, stout EriiAN 
Allen ; in that muscular figure, with the marked face and deep-set eye, 
you recognize the druggist of New Haven, Bknedict Arnold. 

A tierce shout, a cry, a crash goes up to Heaven ! The British Colonel 
rushing from his bed, asks what Power is this, which demands the surren- 
der of Ticonderoga ? 

For all his spangled coat and waving plumes, this gentleman was 

behind the age. lie had not iieard, that a iNcw Nation had lately been 
born on tlie sod of Lexington. Nor did he dream of the Eight Years Bap- 
tism of blood and tears, which was to prepare this nation fur its full com- 
munion with the Church of Nations, on the plains of Yorklown. " In 

what name do you demand the surrender of this fortress ?" 

In the name of a King? Or perchance in the name of Benedict Arnold 
and stout Etiian Allen? No ! Ilaik how that stern response breaks through 
the silence of night. 

" lu llie name of the Lord Jehovah and the Continental Congress !" 

And lloaling into the blue sky, the I'lNii tuke banner waved from the 
summit of Ticonderoga. 

You will remember, that the emblem of the New-born nation, at 

that time, was a Pine Tree. Tiie Lord had not yet given his stars, to dash 
from the Banner of Freedom ; an emblem of the rights of man all over the 
world.— 

'J'liat was the first deed of Benedict Arnold ; the initial letter to a long 
alphabet ol' glorious deeds, which was to end in the blackness of Treason. 

III.— THE MAIICII TIIRDIIOII TIIE WILDERNESS. 

There was a day, my friends, when some Italian peasants, toiling in llie 
vineyards of their cloudless dime, beneath the shadow of those awful Alps, 
that rise as jf to the very Heavens, ran in terror to the village Priest, beg- 
ging him to pray for them, for the end of the world was coming. 

The Priest calmly inquired the cause of all the clamor. Soon the mys- 
tery was explained. Looking up into the white ravines of the Al|)s, the 
peasants had seen an army coming down — emerging from that awful wilder- 
ness of snow and ice, where the avalanche alone had spoken, for ages — 

18 



158 DENEDICT ARNOLD. 

wiili caniioni=, and plumes, and banners, and a liltlc man in a grey riding- 
coat in their midst. 

That little man was named Napoleon Honaparle — a votiNO max, who 
one day was starving in Paris for the want of a dinner, and the ne.\t held 
France in the palm of his hand. 

That was a yreat deed, the crossing of the Alps, by the young man. Na- 
poleon, but I will now tell you a bolder deed, done by tiic Patriot, Uknedict 
Arnold. 

In April, 177.5, that man Arnold stood beliind a counter, mixing medi- 
cines, pasting labels on phials, and pulling poisons in their plaees. 

In May, the Druggist Arnold, stood beside stout Ethan Allen, in the gate 
of conquered Ticonderoga. 

In September, the soldier Arnold was on his way to Quebec, through an 
untrodden desert of three hundred miles. 

One night, the young Commander Washington sat in liis tent at Cam- 
bridge, (near Boston,) with his eye fixed on the map of Canada, and his 
finger laid on that spot marked Qukdkc. 

While thus employed a soldier stood by his side. 

" Give me two thousand men. General," said he, " and I will take 
Quebec." 

Washington answered this with a look of incredulous surprise. 

" Three hundred miles of untrodden wilderness are to be traversed, ere 
you can obtain even a glimpse of the rock of Quebec." 

" Yet I will go !" was the firm response of the soldier. 

" But there are rocks, and ravines, and dense forests, and unknown lakes, 
and impassable cataracts in the waj'," answered Washington ; " and then 
the cold of winter will come on ; your provisions will fail ; your men will 
be starved or frozen to death." 

Still that soldier was firm. 

" Give me two thousand men, and I will go !" 

Do you mark the bold brow — the clear, dark eye — the determined lip of 
that soldier? Do you behold the face of Washington — utterly unlike your 
vulgar pictures of the man — each outline moulded by a high resolve, the 
eye gleaming chivalry, the brow radiant with the light of genius ? 

That soldier was Benedict Arnold. 

Washington look him by the hand, and bade him go ! 

«' Yes, go through the wilderness. Attack and possess Quebec. Then 
the annexation of Canada will be certain ; the American name will embrace 
a Continent. Go ! and God speed you on your journey." 

Did that great truth ever strike you ? Washington did not fight for a 
Half-America, or a Piece-.\merica, but for the Continent, the whole Conti- 
nent. His army was not called the American, but the Continental 
army. The Congress was not entitled American, but Continental. The 



THE MARCH THROUGH THE WILDERNESS. 159 

very currency was Continkntal. In one wnrd, Washington anil his com- 
patriots were impressed with the behef that God had given the whole Con- 
tinent to the Free. — Therefore lie gazed upon the map of Canada. There- 
fore, pressing Arnold's hand, he bade him God speed ! 

And he did go. Yes, look yonder on the broad ocean. Behold that lit- 
tle fleet of eleven vessels stealing along the coast, toward the mouth of the 
Kennebec. That fleet, sailing on the 17th of September, 1775, contains 
eleven hundred brave men, and their leader, Benedict Arnold. 

They reach the mouth of llie Kennebec — they glide along its clilf-em- 
bosomed shores. These brave men are about to traverse an untrodden 
wilderness of .300 miles, and then attack the Gibralter of America. If that 
was not a bold idea, then tiie crossing of tiie Alps was a mere holiday 
pastime. 

Let us leave this little army to build their canoes near the mouth of the 
Kennebec ; let us hurry into the thick wilderness. 

Even in these days of steam and rail-road cars, the Kennebec is beautiful. 
Some of yon have wandered there by its deep waters, and seen the smiles 
of woman mirrowed in its wave. Some of you have gazed upon those high 
clifTs, those shadowy glens, now peopled with the hum of busy life. 

But in t!u; day when Arnold dared its solitudes, there was a gcandeur 
stamped on tiiese rocks and cliffs — a grandeur fresii from the hands of God. 

Yet, even amidst its awful wilds, there was a scene of strange loveliness, 
a picture wiiich I would stamp upon your souls. 

Stretching away from the dark waters of that river — where another 
stream mingles with its flood — a wide plain, bounded by dense forests, 
breaks on'your eye. 

As the glimmering day is seen over the eastern hills, there, in the centre 
of the plain, stamps a solitary figure, a lone Indian, the last of a line of kings ; 
yes, willi his arms folded, his war-hlaiiket gathered about liis form, the 
Iiatchet and knife lying idly at his feet — there stands the last of a long line 
of forest kings, gazing at the ruins of his race. 

The ruins of his race ? Yes — look there ! In the centre of that jilain, 
a small fabric arises under the shade of centuried oaks — a small fabric, with 
battered walls and rude windows, stands there like a tomb in the desert, so 
lonely, even amid this desolation. 

Let us enter this rude place. What a sight is there ! As the first gleam 
of day breaks over the eastern hills, it trembles through those rude windows, 
it trembles upon that shattered altar, that fallen cross. 

Altar and cross ? What do they here in the wilderness ? And why 
does that lone Indian — that last of the kings — who could be burned without 
a murmur — why does he mutter wildly to himself as he gazes upon this 
ruin ? 

Listen. Here, many years ago, dwelt a powerful Indian tribe, and here, 
from afar over the waters, came a peaceful man, clad in a long coarse robe, 



100 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

villi a nido rrnss hani;inij on liis breast. ']'li:it pparofiil man Iniilt (he 
chinch, rcaieil the altar, iilaiilcil llif cross. Here, in llie cahiiiicss ii(' the 
Slimmer evening, you might see the red warrior with bhinied war-knife, 
come loworshi|); the little Indian child kneeling there, clasping its tiny 
hands, as it learned, in its rude dialect, to lisp the name of Jesus ; and here 
the dark brown liiilian iiiaidcii, with her raven hair falling over her bending 
form, lisleiied willi dilating eyes, to that slory of the virgin-mother. 

Here, thai man with the cross on his breast, lived and taught for twenly- 
five years. Forsaking the delights of Parisian civilization, the altars and 
jnoniiineiils of the eternal city, he came here to teach the rude Indian that 
lie had a soul, that (<od cared i'or luiii, thai a great Being, in a far distant 
land, wept, prayed, and died lor /liin, the dusky savage of the woods. 
AVhen he first came here, his hair was dark as night: here he lived until 
it matched the winter's snow. 

One Sabbath morn, just as the day broke over tliese hills, while man and 
woman and child knell before the altar, while the aged Priest stood yonder, 
lifting the sacramental cu|) above his head, yes — my blood chill, as I write 
it — (in a Sabbath morning, as the worship of Almighty God was celebrated 
in the church, all at once a iiorrid cry broke on the silent air ! A cry, a 
yell, a wild hurrah ! 

The cry of women, as they knelt for mercy, and in answer to their prayer 
the clubbed rille came crushing down — the yell of warriors shot like dogs 
upon the chapel lloor — the wild hurrah of the murderers, who fired tlirough 
these windows upon the worsliippeis of Jehovah ! 

'J'here was a llame rising into that Sabbath sky — there were the horrid 
shrieks of massacre ringing on the air, as men and women plunged into the 
flood — while from yonder walls of rocks, the murderers picked thein one by- 
one ! The lonely plain ran with blood, down to the Kenebec, and the 
dying who struggled in its waves, left but a bloody track on the waters, to 
tell of their last fatal plunge ! 

And yonder, yes, in the eluirch of God, kneeling beside that altar, clasp- 
jn>' that cross with his trembling hands, there crouched the old man as the 
death-blow sank into his brain ! 

I]is wliiti- liair teas dyed blood-red, even as the name of the Saviour 
quivered from his lips. 

Even, came — where a Nation had been, was now only a harvest of dead 
bodies : where Religion had been, was now only an old man, murdered 
beside his altar. 

Yet still, in death, his right hand uplifted, clung to the fallen cross. 

And who were the murderers ? 

I will not say that they were Christians, but they were white men. and 
the children of while parents. They had been reared in the knowledge of 
a Saviour ; they had been taught the existence of a (Jod. 'I'hey were sol- 
diers, too, right brave men, withal, for they came wiili knife and rifle, skulk- 



THE MARCH THROUGH THE WILDERNESS. 161 

itiL' lil<e wolves ;ilniiij tliese rocks, to murder a congregation in the act of 
worshipping their Maker. 

Do you ask me Ibr my opinion of such men ? I cannot tell you. But 
were this tongue mule, lliis hand palsied, I wouki only ask the power of 
speecii to say one word — the power of pen, to write that word in letters 
of fire — ami the word would be — Scorn ! — Scorn upon tiih murderers 
OF Father Ralle ! 

And now, as the light of morning broke over llie desolate plain, there 
stood the lone Indian, gazing upon the ruins of iiis race. Nalauis, tlie last 
of the Norridgewocks, among the graves of liis |)eople ! 

But now he gazes far down the dark river — ha! what strange vision 
comes here ? 

Yonder, gliding from tiie shelter of tlie deep woods, comes a fleet of 
canoes, carrying strange warriors over the waters. Strange warriors, clad 
in the bhio hunting-frock, faced with fur ; strange warriors, with powder- 
liorn, knife and rifle. Far ahead of the main body of the lleet, a solitary 
canoe skims over the waters. 'I'hat canoe contains the oarsmen, and another 
form, wrapped in a ro\igli cloak, with his head drooped on the breast, while 
the eye flashes with deep thoughts — tlic form of the Napoleon of the wil 
derness, Benedict Arnold. 

Look ! He rises in the canoe — he stands erect — he (lings the cloak from 
liis foru) — he lifts the rough fur cap from his brow. Do you mark each 
outline of that warrior-form ? Do you note the bold thought now struggling 
into birth over that prominent forehead, along that compressed lip, in the 
gleam of those dark grey eyes, sunken deep beneath the brow ? 

He stands there, erect in the canoe, with outspread arms, as though he 
would say — 

" Wilderness, I claim ye as my own ! Rocks, ye cannot daunt me ; 
cataracts, ye cannot appal ! Starvation, death, and cold — I will conquer 
ye all !" 

Look ! As he stands there, erect in the canoe, the Indian, Natanis, be- 
holds him, springs into the river and soon stands by his side. 

" The Dark-Eagle comes to claim the wilderness," he speaks in the wild 
Indian tongue, which Arnold knows so well. " The wilderness will yield 
to the Dark-Eagle, but the Rock will defy him. The Dark-Eagle will soar 
aloft to the sun. Nations will behold him, and shout his praises. Yet 
when he soars highest, his fall is most certain. When his wing brushes 
the sky, then the arrow will pierce his heart !" 

It was a Prophecy. In joy or sorrow, in battle or council, in honor or 
treason, Arnold never forgot the words of Natanis. 

Unjoins that little fleet; he advances with Arnold into the Wilderness. 
Let us follow him there ! 

Now dashing down boiling rapids, now carrying their canoes through 
miles of forest, over hills of rock, now wading for long leagues, through 



1G3 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

water tliat frcozrs to ilicir limbs as they go, the little army of Arnold 
advance. 

On, bravo Arnold, on ! For yon the awful mountain has no terrors, tlie 
cold that stii|)s the bUxxl in its llowini;, no fear. Not even the dark night 
when the strajijler falls dying by the way, and unknown ravines yawn far 
below vour i)ath, not even the darker day when the little store of parched 
corn fails, and your famished soldiers feed on the flesh of dogs — when even 
the snake is a dainty nteal — not even terrors like these can scare your iroa 
soul ! On, brave Arnold, on ! 

Look, at last, after dangers too horrible to tell, the litUe fleet is floating 
down that stream, whose awful solitude gained it this name, tiik river of 
TiiK DKAD. Far over the waters, look ! A tremoudous mountain rises there 
from the waters above all other mountains into the blue sky ; while, lonely 
and magnificent, an alabaster altar, to w hieh the Angels may come to wor- 
ship. 

Under the shadow of this mountain the litde ariny of Arnold encamped 
for three days. A single, bold soldier, ascends the colossal steep ; stands 
there, far above, amid the snow and sunbeams, and at last comes rushing 
down with a shriek of joy. 

" Arnold !" he cries, •' 1 have seen the rock and spires of Quebec !" 
"What a burst of joy rises from that Hide host ! Quebec ! the object of 
nil their hopes, for which they starve, and toil, and freeze ! Hark ! to that 
deep-mouthed hurrah '. 

Benedict Arnold then takes from his breast, — where wrapped in close 
folds he had carried it, throui;h all his dreary inarch — a blue banner gleam- 
in" with thirteen stars. lie hoists it in the air. For the tirst time the 
Banner of the Rights of Man, to which God has given his stars, floats over 
the wafers of the Wilderness. 

On, brave Arnold, on ! On over the deep rapids and the mountain rock ; 
on ai'ain in hunf'er and cold, until desertion and disease have thinned your 
band of eleven hundred down to nine hundred men of iron ; on, brave hero 
— Napoleon on the Alps, Cortez in Jlexico, Pizarro in Peru, never did a 
bolder deed than yours ! 

Let us lor a moment pause to look upon a picture of beauty, even in this 
terrible march. 

■Po von see that dark lake, spreading away there under the shadow of 
tall pines ? Look up — a faint glimpse of starlight is seen there through the 
intervals of the sombre boughs. The stars look down upon the deeps ; 
solitude is there in all its stillness, so like the grave. 

Suddenly a red light flares over the waters. The gleam of fires redden 
the boughs of these pines, flashes around the trunks of these stout oaks. The 
men of Arnold are here, encamped around yonder deserted Indian wigwaiu, 
whose rude timbers you may behold among tlte trees, near the brink of the 
waters. 



THE ATTACK ON QUEBEC. 163 

For an hour lliese iron men are merry ! Yes, encamped l)y the wave 
of Lake Chaudiere. They roast the ox amid the liiige logs ; they draw the 
rii-h sahnon and the speckled trout from tliese waters. Forgive tliem if the 
druikiiig horn passes from lip to hp ; forgive them if the laugli and song gO' 
round ! — Forgive them — for to-morrow tliey must go on their dread inarch 
again ; to-morrow they must feed on the hark of trees, and freeze in cold 
waters again — forgive them for this hour of joy. 

Now let us follow them again ; let us speak to brave Arnold, and bid 
him on ! 

0, these forests are dark and dense, these rocks are too terrible for us to 
climb, the cold chills our blood, tiiis want of bread maddens our brain — but 
still bravo Arnold points toward Quebec, and bids them on ! 

Hark ! That cry, so deep, prolonged, maddening, hark, it swells up into 
the silence of night ; it stops the heart in its beating. On, my braves ! It 
is but the cry of a comrade who has missed his footing, and been dashed 
to pieces against the rocks below. 

It is day again. The sun streams over tlic desolate waste of pines and 
snow. It is day ; but the corn is gone — we hunger, Arnold ! The dog is 
slain, the snake killed ; they feast, these iron men. Then, with canoes on 
their shoulders, they wade the stream, they climb the mountain, thoy crawl 
along the sides of dark ravines. Upon the waters again ! IJehold the 
stream boiling and foaming over its rocky bed. Listen to the roaring of the 
torrent. Now guide the boat wiUi care, or we arc lost; swerve not a hair's 
breadth, or we are dashed to pieces. Suddenly a crash — a shout — and lo ! 
Those men are struggling for their lives amid the wrecks of their canoes. 

l$ut still that voice speaks out: "Do not fear my iron men; gather the 
wrecks, and leap into your comrades' canoes. IJo not fear, for Quebec is 
there!" 

At last two long months of cold, starvation and death are past ; Arnold 
stands on Point Levy, and there, over the waters, sees rising into light the 
rock and spires of Quebec ! 

JMapoleon gazing on the plains of Italy, Cortcz on the Halls of Montezu- 
ma, never felt such joy as throbbed in Arnold's bosom then ! 

It was there, there in the light, no dream, no I'ancy ; bvit a thing of sub- 
stance and form, it was there above the waters, the object of bright hopes 
and fears ; that massive rock, that glittering town. 

At last he beheld — Qukbho ! 

IV.— THE ATTACK ON QtlEnEC. 

It was the last day of the year 1775. 

Yonder, on the awful dills of Abraham, in the darkness of the daybreak, 
while the leaden sky grooms above, a band of brave men are gathered ; yes, 
M'hile the British arc banquetting in Quebec, here, on this tremendous rock, 



164 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

in silent array, stand the Heroes of the Wilderness, joined with their 
brothers, the Continentals from Montreal. 

Tliai liide army of one iluuisaiid have determined to attack the Gibralter 
of America, willi its rocks, its forlilicalions, its two tliousanil 15rili>li soldiers. 
Here, on the very rock, where, sixteen years ago, Montcalm and AVolfe 
poured forth their hlooil, now are gathered a band of bravo men, who are 
seen in the darkness of this ho\ir, exlendiiig like dim shadow-forms, around 
two tiguros, standinsj alone in the centre of the host. 

Il is silent, and sad as death. The roaring of the St. Lawrence alone is 
liearil. Above the leaden sky, around the rock extending like a plain- 
yonder, far ihroiiirji the i;looni, a misty light struggles into the sky, that 
light gleams from the firesides o I Quebec. 

Who are these, tiiat stand side by side in the centre of the band ? 

That muscular form, with a hunting sliirt llirown over his breast, that 
form staiuling there, wilii foldcil arms and head drooped low, while the eye 
glares out from beneath the fanning brow, that is the Patriot Hero of the 
Wilderness, Benedict Arnold. 

By his side stands a graceful form, with strength and beauty min^^lcd in 
its outlines, clad in ihc uniform of a CJcneral, while that chivalrous counte- 
nance with its eye of summer blue, turns anxiously from face to face. In 
that form you behold the doomed Montgo.merv. He has come from Mon- 
treal, lie has joined his little band widi the Iron Men of Benedict Arnold. 

Who are these that gather round, with fur caps upon eacli brow, mocca- 
sins upon each foot; who are these wild men, that now await the signal- 
word ? — You may know them by their leader, who, with his iron form, 
stands leaning on his ride — the brave Daniel Moroax. 

The daybreak wears on ; the sky grows darker ; the snow begins to fall. 

Arnold turns to his brothers in arms. They clasp each other by the 
hand. — Their lips move but you hear no sound. 

" Arnold !" whispers Monlgomery, " I will lead my division along the St. 
Lawrence, under the rocks of Cape Diamond. 1 will meet you in the cen- 
tre of Quebec — or die I" 

" -Montgomery, I will attack the barrier on the opposite side. There is my 
hand ! 1 will meet you yonder — yonder in the cenire of Quebec — or perish '." 

Il is an oath ; tlie word is given. — Look there, and behold the two divi- 
sions, separating over the rocks : this, with Moniiiomery towards the St. 
Lawrence, that with Arnold and Morgan, towards the St. Charles. 

All is still. The rocks grow white with snow. All is still and dark, but 
grim shadows are moving on every side. 

Silence along the lines. Not a word on the peril of your lives I Do 
you behold this narrow pass, leading to the tirst barrier, yonder ? That 
barrier, grim with cannon, commands every inch of the pass. On one side, 
the St. Charles heaps up its rocks of ice ; on the other, are piled llie rocks 
of granite. 



TUB ATTACK ON QUEBEC. 165 

Silence along llic lines ! The night is dark, the way is difficult, but Que- 
bec is yonder ! Soldier, beware of those piles of rock — a single misplaced 
footstep may arouse the sleeping soldier on yonder barrier. If he awake, 
we arc lost! On, brave band, on with stealthy footstep, and rifle to each 
shoulder ; on, men of the wilderness, in your shirts of blue and fur! 

At the head of the column, with his drawn sword gleaming through the 
night, Benedict Arnold silcndy advances. 

Then a single cannon, mounted on a sled, and dragged forward, by stout 
arms. 

Last of all, Daniel Morgan with the riflemen of the Wilderness. 

In this order along the narrow pass, willi ice on one side and rocks on 
tlie other, the hero-band advance. Tlie pass grows narrower — the battery 
nearer. Arnold can now count the cannon — nay, the soldiers who are 
watching there. Terrible suspense ! Every breath is hushed — stout hearts 
now swell within the nianly chest. 

Xiips compressed, eyes glaring, rifles clenched — the Iron Men move 
softly on. 

Arnold silently turns to his men. • 

And yonder through the gloom, over the suburb of that city, over the 
rocks of that city's first barrier — there frowned the battery grim with 
cannon. 

There wait the sentinel and his brother soldiers. They hear no sound ; 
the falling snow, echoes no footstep, and yet there are dim shadows moving 
along the rocks, moving on without a sound. 

Look ! Those shadows move up tiie rocks, to the very muzzles of the 
cannon. Now the sentinel starts up from his reclining posture ; he hears 
that stealthy tread. He springs to his cannon — look ! how that flash glares 
out upon the night. 

Is this magic ? There disclosed by that cannon flash, long lines of bold 
riflemen start into view, and there — 

Standing in front of the cannon, his tall form rising in the red glare, with 
a sword in one hand, the Banner of the Stars in the other — there, with that 
wild look which he ever wore in battle, gleaming from his eye — there stands 
the patriot, Benedict Arnold ! 

On either side there is a mangled corse — but he stands firm. Before 
him yawns the cannon, but he springs upon those cannon — he turns to his 
men — he bids them on ! 

" To-night we will feast in Quebec !" 

And the hail of the rifle balls lays the British dead upon their own can- 
non. — Now the crisis of the conflict comes. 

Now behold this horrid scene of blood and death. 

While flie snow falls over the faces of the dead, while the blood of the 
dying turns that snow to scarlet, gather round vour leader, load and fire, 

19 



16C BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

dash these British hirchngs upon the barrier's rocks — ye lieroes of the 
AVilderness ! 

Now Arnold is in his glory ! 
' Now lie knows nothing, sees nothing but that grim barrier frowning 
yonder ! Those tires flashing from the iiouses — that rattling hail of bullets 
pattering on tlic snow — he sees, he feels them not ! 

His eye is fixed upon the second barrier. He glances around that mass 
of rides, now glittering in the red light— he floats the Banner of the Stars on 
high — Hark to his shout ! 

" Never fear, my men of the Wilderness ! Wc have not come three 
hundred miles to fail now ! Have I not sworn to meet Montgomery there, 
to meet him in the centre of the town, or die ?" 

And then on, across the rocks and cannon of the barrier ! Hark — that 
crash, that yell ! The British soltliers are driven back over the dead bodies 
of comrades — the first barrier is won ! 

Arnold stands victorious upon that barrier — stands there, with blood upon 
his face, his uniform — dripping from his sword — stands there with the Ban- 
ner of the Stars in his hand ! 

Oh ! sainted mother of Jlrnold, who on that calm summer night, near 
forty years ago, laid your child upon the sacramental altar, now look 
from Heaven, and — if saints pray for the children of earth — then pray 
that your son may die here upon the bloody barrier of Quebec .' For then 
his name will be enshrined with ff'arrens and ff'ashingtons of all time J 

Even as Arnold stood there, brandishing that starry banner, a soldier 
rushed up to his side, and with horror quivering on his lip, told that the gal- 
lant Montgomery had fallen. 

Fallen at the head of his men, covered with wounds ; the noble heart, 
that beat so high an hour ago, was now cold as the winter snow, on which 
his form was laid. 

Leaving Arnold for a moment, on the first barrier of Quebec, let us trace 
the footsteps of his brolhcr-hero. 

Do you behold that massive rock, which arises from the dark river into 
the darker sky ? Along that rock of Cape diamond, while the St. Lawrence 
dashes the ice in huge masses against its base, along tliat rock, over a path 
that leads beneath a shelf of granite, with but room for the foot of a single 
man, Richard Montgomery leads his band. 

Stealthily, silently, my comrades ! — Not a word — let us clirab this nar- 
row path. Take care ; a misplaced footstep, and you will be hurled down' 
upon the ice of the dark river. Up, my men, and on ! Yonder it is at 
last, the block-house, and beyond it, at the distance oF two hundred paces, 
the battery, dark with cannon ! 

AVith words like these, Montgomery led on his men. The terrible path 
was ascended. He stood bel'ore the block-house. Now, comrades ! 



THE ATTACK ON QUEBEC. lf,7' 

How that rifle-blaze flashed far over the rocks down to the St. Lawrence ! 
An axe ! an axe ! by all that is brave ! He seizes the axe, the brave 
Montgomery ; with his own arm he hews the pahsades. — The way is clear 
for his men. A charge with blazing rifles, a shout, the block-house is won ! 

Talk of your British bayonets — ha, ha ! AVhere did they ever stand the 
blaze of American rifles ? Where ? Oh, perfumed genfleraen, who in 
gaudy uniforms, strut Chesnut street — talk to me of your charge of bayonets, 
and your rules of discipline, and your system of tactics, and I will reply by 
a single word — one American rifleman, in his rude hunting shirt, was worth 
a thousand such as you. Who mocked the charge of bayonets on Bunker 
Hill ? Who captured Burgoyne ? Who — at Brandywine — kept back all 
the panoply of British arms from morning till night ? — The Riflemen. 

One shout the block-house is won. — Now on toward the battery — load 
and advance ! Montgomery still in the front. With a yell, the British be- 
hold them approach ; they flee from tlieir cannon. — Montgomery mounts 
the walls of rocks and iron ; his sword gleams on high, like a beacon for his 
men. At this moment, hush your breath and look ! — While Montgomery 
clings to the rocks of the battery, a single British soldier turns from his 
flight, and fires one of those grim cannon, and then is gone again. 

A blaze upon the right, a smoke, a chorus of groans ! 

Montgomery lays mangled upon the rock, while around him are scat- 
tered four other corses. Their blood mingles in one stream. 

A rude rifleman advances, bends down, and looks upon that form, quiv- 
ering for an instant only, and then cold — upon that face, torn and mangled, 
as with the print of a horse's hoof, that face, but a moment before glowing 
with a hero's soul. He looks for a moment and then, with panic in his 
face, turns to his comrades. 

" Montgomery is dead !" he shrieks ; and with one accord tney retreat 
— they fly from that fatal rock. 

But one form lingers. It is that boyish form, graceful almost to womanly 
beauty, with the brow of a genius, the eye of an eagle. That boy ran away 
from college, bore Washington's commands 300 miles, and now — covered 
with the blood of the fight — stands beside the mangled body of Montgomery, 
his dark eye wet with tears. In that form behold the man who was almost 
President of the United States, and Emperor of Mexico — the enigma of 
our history, Aaron Burr. 

They are gone. Montgomery is left alone, with no friend to compose 
limbs or close those glaring eyes. And at this moment, while the snow 
falls over his face, while the warm blood of his heart pours out upon the 
rock, yonder in his far-ofT home, his young wife kneels by her bed, and 
prays God to hasten his return ! 

He died in the flush of heroism, in the prime of early manhood, leaving 



168 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

Ills country the rich legacy of his fame, leaving his blood upon the rock of 
Quebec. 

The (lay is coming when an nriny of Tree Canadians will encamp on 
that very rock, their rifles pointed at the British battery, their Republican 
flag waving in the forlorn hope against the British banner ! Then perhaps, 
some true American heart will wash out the blood of Montgomery from the 
rock of Quebec. 

Arnold stood upon the first barrier, while his heart throbbed at the story 
of Montgomery's fate. 

Then that expression of desperation, which few men could look upon 
without fear, came over Arnold's face. Now look at him, as wiih his form 
swelling with rage he rushes on ! He springs from that barrier, he shouts 
to the iron men, he rings the name of Morgan on the air. 

He points to the narrow street, over which the second barrier is thrown. 

" Montgomery is there," he shouts, in a voice of thunder, " there waiting 
for us !" 

Hurrah ! How the iron men leap at the word ! There is the quick 
clang of ramrods ; each rille is loaded. They rush on ! 

At their head, his whole form convulsed, his lips writhing, his chest 
heaving unconscious of danger, as though the ghost of Montgomery was 
there before him, Benedict Arnold rushes on ! 

Even as he rushes, he falls. Even as you look upon him, in his battle 
rage with his right leg shattered, he falls. 

But does he give up the contest ? 

By the ghost of Montgomery — No ! 

No ! He lifts his face from the snow now crimsoned with his blood, he 
follows with his startling eyes, the path of Morgan, he shouts with his 
thunder tones, his well-known battle-cry. 

He beholds his men rush on amid light and flame, he hears the crack of 
the rifle, the roar of cannon, the tread of men, rushing forward to the 
conflict. 

Then he endeavors to rise. A gallant soldier oflfers his arm to the 
wounded hero. 

He rises, stands for a moment, and then falls. But still his soul is firm. 
— Still his eye glares upon the distant flight. Not until he makes his bed, 
there on the cold snow, in a pool of his own blood, until his eyes fail and 
his right leg stifl'i'ns, does his soul cease to beat with the pulsations of bat- 
tle. Then and then only, the Hero of the Wilderness is carried back to 
yonder rock. 

Would to God that he had died there ! 

Would to God that he had died there wifli all his honorable wounds about 
him. O, for a stray bullet, a chance shot, to still his proud heart forever. 
O, that he had laid side by side with Montgomery, hallowed forever by his 



THE WAR-HORSE LUCIFER. 160 

death of glory. Then tlie names of Arnold and Montgomery, mingled in 
one breath, would have been joined forever, in one song of immortality. 

But Montgomery died alone ; his blood stains the rock of Quebec. Ar- 
nold lived ; liis ashes accursed by his countrymen, rest in an unknown 
grave. 

When the news of the gallant attack on Quebec — gallant though unsuc- 
cessful — reached Philadelphia, the Congress rewarded Benedict Arnold with 
the commission of a Brigadier General. 

The same mob, who, afterwards — while Arnold was yet true to his coun- 
try — stoned him in the streets, and stoned the very arm that had fought for 
them, now cracked their throats in shouting his name. 

The very city, which afterwards was the scene of his Dishonorable Per- 
secution, now flashed out from its illuminated casements, glory of the Hero 
of Quebec, Benedict Arnold. 

v.— THE WAR-HORSE LUCIFER. 

Now let us pass with one bold flight over the movements of the Conti- 
nental army in Canada ; let us hasten at once, to that dark night when the 
legions under Sullivan, embarked on the River Sorel, on their way to Lake 
Champlain and Crown Point. 

Let us go yonder to the darkened shore, as the shades of night come 
down. A solitary man with his horse, yet lingers on the strand. Yes, as 
tlie gleam of the advancing bayonets of Bourgoyne, is seen there through the 
northern woods —as the last of the American boats ripples the river, far to 
the south, while the gathering twilight casts the shadow of the forest along 
the waters, here on this deserted strand, a single warrior lingers with his 
war-horse. 

There is the light canoe waiting by the shore, to bear liim over the 
waters ; for he must leave that gallant steed with skin black as night, and a 
mane like an inky wave. 

He cannot leave him for the advancing foe ; he must kill him. 

Kill the noble horse that has borne him scatheless through many a fight ! 
Kill — Lucifer — so the warrior named him — that brave horse, whose heart 
in battle beats with a fire like his own ? Ah, then the stout heart of Arnold 
quailed. Ah, then as the noble horse stooped his arching neck, as if to in- 
vite his master to mount him once again, and rush on to meet the foe, then 
Arnold who never turned his face away from foe, turned his face away from 
the large speaking eye of that horse, Lucifer. 

He drew his pistol ; the horse laid his head against his breast, floating 
his dark mane over his shoulders. Arnold who never shed a tear for the 
de.id men in batde, felt his eyes grow wet. He was about to shoot that 
friend, who had served him so well, and never betrayed him. 

There was the report of a pistol — the sound of a heavy body falling on 
the sand — the motion of a light canoe speeding over the waters. 



170 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

And Arnold looked back, and beheld ihe dying iiead of his horse faintly 
upraised ; he beheld that large eye rolling in death. 

All, little can you guess tlie love that the true warrior feels for his steed ! 
Ah, UKiny a lime in after life, when the friend of his heart betrayed, and the 
beloved one on whose bosom he reposed, whispered Treason in his ear, did 
he remember the last look of that dying war-horse, Lucii'En. 

VI.— THE ArE-AND-VIPER GOD. 

Let us now pass rapidly on, in this our strange history. At first a 
glorious landscape bmsts ujion our view, and Courage and Patriotism walk 
before us in forms of God-like beauty. Let us leave this landscape, let us 
on to the dim horizon, where the dark cloud towers and glooms, bearing in 
its breast the lightnings of Treason. 

Let us pass over tliose brilliant exploits on Lake Champlain, which made 
the Continent ring with the name of Arnold. 

Let us see that man rising in renown as a soldier, who was always — 
First on the forlorn hope, lust on the fiehl of battle. 

Let us behold certain men, in Camp and Congress, growing jealous of 
his renown. 

They do not hesitate to charge him with appropriating to his own use, 
certain goods, which he seized when in command at Montreal. The 
records of history give the lie to this charge of mercenary business, for 
when Arnold seized the goods, lie wrote to his commanding general and to 
Congress, that he was about to seize certain stores in Montreal for the pub- 
lic benelit. Those goods were left to waste on the river shore, through the 
reckless negligence of an inferior officer. 

We will then go to Congress, and behold the rise of that thing, which the 
ancient sculptors would have impcrsoiuitcd under tjic mingled form of an 
ape and a viper — the spirit of pai{TY. 

It is the same in all ages. Without the courage or the talent, to project 
one original measure, it is always found barking and snarling at the heels 
of Genius. To-day it receives Napoleon, crowned with the bloody laurel 
of Waterloo, and instead of calling upon France, to support her Deliverer, 
lliis spirit of Parly truckles to foreign bayonets, and requests — his abdica- 
tion. To-morrow, it meets the victor of the south, in a New Orleans' court 
of justice, and while the shouts of thousands protected from British bayo- 
nets, rings in his ears, this spirit of Party in the shape of a solemn Judge, 
attempts to brand the hero wiili dishonor, by the infliction of a thousand 
dollar line. In tlie Revolution, Washington held the serenity of his soul 
amid the hills of Valley Forge, combating pestilence and starvation, with an 
unshrinking will. All the while in the hall of the Continental Congress, 
the Spirit of Party was at work, planning a mean deed, with mean men ibr 



THE APE-AND-VIPER GOD. 171 

its inslrnmcnts ; the overthrow of the Hero by a cabal, tlial was as formid- 
able then, as it is oontcmptable now. 

In all ages, to speak plainly, this spirit of party, this effervescence of fac- 
tion, is the voice of those weak and wicked creatures, who spring into life 
from the fermenting compost of social dissension. It never shows a bold 
front, never speaks a plain truth, never does a brave deed. Its element is 
intrigue, more particularly called low cunning ; its atmosphere darkness ; its 
triumph the orgie of diseased debauchery, its revenge as remorseless as the 
malice of an ape, or the sting of a viper. 

A great man may be a Republican, or even a King-worshipper, willing to 
write, or speak, or fight for his principles, with a fearless pen and voice and 
sword. But he never can be a — Party Man. The very idea of faction, 
pre-supposes intrigue, and intrigue indicates a cold heart, and a dwarfed 
brain. It is the weapon of a monkey, not of a man. 

This Spirit of Party, this manifestation of all the meanness and malice 
which may exist in a nation, even as the most beautiful tropical flower 
shelters the most venomoils snake, has destroyed more republics, than all 
the Tyrants of the world together, were their deeds multiplied by thousands. 
Indeed, in nine cases out of ten, it has been by playing on the frothy pas- 
sions of contending factions, that Tyrants have been sufl^ered to trample 
their way to power, over the bodies of freemen. 

Let 'us go to the hall of Congress, and see this Spirit of Party, the Ape- 
and-Viper God, which burdened the heart of AVashington, more than all the 
terror of British bayonets or scaffolds, first manifested in the case of Arnold. 

Let a single fact attest its blindness and malignity. 

In February, 1777, Congress created five Major Generals, over the 

head of Benedict Arnold. All of these were his juniors ; one of them was 
from the militia. 

Was that the way to treat the Hero of the Wilderness, of Quebec, of 
Ticonderoga and of Champlain ? 

Even the well-governed spirit of Washington, started at such neglect. 
He wrote a manly and soothing letter to Arnold. He knew him to be a 
man of mauv good and some evil qualities, all marked and prominent. He 
believed that with fair treatment, the Evil might be crushed, the Good 
strengthened. Therefore, AVashington, the Father of his Country, wrote a 
letter, at once high-toned and conciliating, to the Patriot, Benedict Arnold. 

What was the course of Arnold ? , 

He e.xpostulated with the party in Congress, who wished to drive him 
mad. 

How did he expostulate ? In his own fiery way. Like many stout souls 
of that Iron time, he spoke a better language with his sword than with his 
pen. Let us look at the expostulation of Arnold. 

It is night around the town of Danbury. Two tliousand British 

hirelings attack and burn that town. Yes, surrounded by his hirelings, as- 



17'-J BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

sassiiis in the sliapo of Rrilish soldiers, and assaesins in the shape of Amer- 
ican 'I'ories, liravo (ioneral 'Iryon holds his Communion of Blood, by the 
light of blazing iionirs. 

-n till- dimness of the daybreak hour, these gallant men, whose trophies 
are di^iioaorod virgins, and blasted homes, arc returnini; to their camp. 

Yonder on tliiist- high rocks, near the town of Hidgcfield, Arnolil, with 
only 500 men, disputes the path of the Destroyer. Ths Continentals are 
driven back after mucii carnage, but Arnold is the last man to leave the rock. 

llis iiorse is shot under him ; the British surround him, secure of their 
prey ; the dismounted General sits calmly on his dying steed, his arms 
folded, his eye sunk beneath the compressed brow. A burly British soldier 
approaches to secure the rebel — look ! lie is sure of his prisoner. Arnold 
bcholiis him, beholds the wall of bayonets and faces that encircle him. Tlie 
soldier extends liis liand to grasp the prisoner, when Arnold, smiling 
calmly, draws his pistol and shoots the hireling through the heart. Follow 
liim yonder, as he lights his way down the rock, through the breasts of 
his foes. 

That was the right kind of Expostulation ! 

When a faction, nestling in the breast of your country, wrong you, then 
only light for that country with more determined zeal. Hight will come 
at last. 

Had Arnold alw.ays expostulated thus, his name would not now be the 
Hyperbole of scorn. lUs name could at this hour, rank second, and only 
second to — Washinoton. 

When Congress received the news of this Expostulation, Arnold was 
raised to the rank of Major General. Yet still, they left the date of his 
commission, below the date of the commissions of the other five Major Gen- 
erals. This — to use the homely expression of a brave Kcvolutionary soldier 
— ' was breaking his head and giving him a plaster,' with a vengeance. 

Ere we pass on to the BalUe-Day of Saratoga, let me tell you an incident 
of strange interest, which took place in 1777, during .Vrnold's command near 
Fort Edward, on the Hudson Kivcr. 

VII. -THE IIRIDAL EVE. 

One summer night, the blaze of many lights streaming from the windows 
of an old mansion, perched yonder among the roeks tind woods, tlashed far 
over the dark waters of Lake Champlain. 

In a quid and comfortable chamber of tliat mansion, a party of British 
ofticers, silting around a table spread with wines and viands, discussed a 
topic of some interest, if it was not the most important in the world, whib 
the tread of the dancers shook the lloor of the adjoining room. 

Yes, while all gaiety and dance and music in the largest hall of the old 
mansion, whose hundred lights glanced far over the waters of Ciiamplain — 



THE BRIDAL EVE. 173 

here in thin quiet room, willi tlie cool ovuning brcnzc blowing in their faces 
thro' the opened windows, here this party of British ofTiccrs had assembled 
to discuss their wines and their favorite topic. 

That topic was — the comparative beauty of the women of the world. 

" As for me," said a handsome young I'^nsign, " I will match the voluptu- 
ous forms and dark eyes of Italy, against the beauties of all the world !" 

" And I," said a bronzed old veteran, who had risen to the Colonelcy by 
his long service and hard figliling ; " and I have a pretty lass of a (laughter 
then; in Kiiglauil, whoso blue eyes and (laxen hair would shame your tragic 
beauties of Italy into very ugliness." 

" I have served in India, as you all must know," said the Major, who sat 
next to the veteran, " and I never saw painting or statue, much less living 
woman, half so lovely as some of those Hindoo maidens, bending down with 
water-lillios in their hands ; bending down by the light of torches, over the 
dark waves of the Ganges." 

And thus, one after another, Ensign, Colonel, and Major, had given their 
opinion, until that young American Refugee, yonder at the foot of the table, 
is left to decide the argument. That American — for I blush to say it — 
handsome young fellow as he is, with a face full of manly beauty, blue deep 
eyes, riidily cheeks, and glossy brown hair, that American is a R(ffugee, and 
a Captain in the liritish army. — He wore the handsome scarlet coat, the 
glittering epaulette, lace rullles on his bosom and around his wrists. 

" Come, Captain, pass the wine this way !" shouted the iOnsign ; " pass 
the wiiu; and decide this great question ! Which are the most beautiful : 
the red cheeks of Merry England, the dark eyes of Italy, or the graceful 
forms of llindoostan?' 

'J"hc Captain hesitated for a moment, and then tossing oil' a bumper of 
old Madeira, somewhat flushed as he was with wini^ ri;plied : 

" Mould your three models of beauty, your English lass, your Italian 
queen, your Hindoo nym[)li, into oiu:, and add to their charms a thousand 
graces of color and form and f(!atur(!, and I woulil not compare this jjcrfection 
of loveliness for a single moment, with tin; wild and artless beauty of — an 
Jlmerimii t^irl." 

Tiie laugh of the three oiilcers, for a moment, drowned the echo of the 
dance in the next room. 

" Compare his American milk-maid with the woinan of Italy !" 

" Or the lass of ICngland !" 

" Or the graceful Hindoo girl !" 

This laughing scorn of the British oflicers, stung the iiandsome Refugee 
to the quick. 

" Hark ye !" ho cried, half rising from his seat, with a (lushed brow, but 

a de(!|) and deliberate voice : " 'i'o-niorrow, I marry a wife : an Jlriurkwi 

girl ;— To-night, at midnight too, that American girl will join the dance in 

ao 



174 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

the next room. You shall see iter — you shall judge for yourselves ! 
AViiethor the American woman is not the most beautiful in the world !" 

There was sonicihing in the manner of the young Hcfugec, more than in 
the nature of his iiil'onuaiioii, that arrested the attention of his brother offi- 
cers. — For a moment they were silent. 

" We Iiave heard something of your marriage, Captain," said the gay 
Ensign, " but we did not think it would occur so suddenly ? Only think 
of it ! To-morrow you will he gone — sotded — verdict brought in — sentence 
passed — a married man! — But tell me? How will your lady-love be 
brought to this house to night ? I thought she resided within the rebel lines ?" 

" iShe does reside there ! I5ut I have sent a messenger — a friendly Indian 
chief, on whom 1 can place the ulniost dejicndence — to bring her from her 
present home, at dead of night thro' the forest, to this mansion, lie is to 
return by twelve ; it is now half-past eleven !" 

" Friendly Indian !" echoed the veteran Colonel ; " Rather an odd guar- 
dian for a pretty woman ! — Quite an original idea of a Duenna, I vow !" 

" And you will match this lady against all the world, for beauty ?" said 
the INlajor. 

" Yes, and if you do not agree with me, this hundred guineas which I lay 
upon the table, shall serve our mess, for wines, for a mondi to come ! But 
if you do agree with me — as without a doubt you will — then you are to re- 
place this gold with a hundred guineas of your own." 

" Agreed ! It is a wager !" chorussed the Colonel and the two other 
oilicers. 

And in that moment — while the door-way was thronged by fair ladies 
and gay oliiccrs, allracied from the ne.\t room by the debate — as the Refu- 
gee stood, with one hand resting upon the little pile of gold, his ruddy face 
grew suddenly pale as a shroud, iiis blue eyes ddated, until they were en- 
circled by a line of white enamel, he remained standing there, as if frozen 
to stone. 

"AVhy, captain, what is the matter?" cried the Colonel, starling up in 
alarm, " do you see a ghost, that you stand gazing there, at the blank wall ?" 

The other oilicers also started up in alarm, also asked the cause of this 
singular demeanor, but still, for the space of a minute or more, the Refugee 
Captain stood there, more like a dead man suddenly recalled to life, than a 
living being. 

Tliat moment passed, he sat down with a cold shiver; made a strong 
effort as if to command his reason ; and then gave utterance to a forced 
laugh. 

" Ha, ha ! See how I've iVigiilened you !" he said — and then laughed 
that cold, unnatural, hollow laugh again. 

.^)i(/ yet, half an hour from thai fimr. he freely eonfessed the nature 
of the horrid jiicture which he had seen drau-n upon that blank, wains- 
colted wall, as if by some supenmtural hand. 



, TIIK BRIDAL EVE. I75 

Dul now, with llie wine cup in liis hand, he turnfiil from one comrade lo 
anolher, uttering some forced jest, or looking towards the doorway, crowded 
by officers and hidies, he gaily invited them to share in this remarkable 
argument : Which were the most beautiful women in the world ': 

As he spoke, the hour struck. 

Twelve o'clock was there, and with it a footstep, and tht^n a liold Indian 
form came urging through the crowd of ladies, thronging yonder doorway. 

Silently, his arms folded on his war-blanket, a look of calm stoic^ism on 
his dusky brow, the Indian advanced along the room, and stood at the head 
of the table. There was no lady with him ! 

Where is the fair girl ? She who it is lo be the IJridc to-morrow ? 
Perhaps the Indian has left her in the next room, or in one of the other 
halls of the old mansion, or pcnhaps — but the thought is a foolish one — she 
has refused to obey her lover's request — refused to come lo meet him ! 

There was something awful in the deep silence that reigned through the 
room, as the solitary Indian stood there, at the head of the table, gazing 
silendy in ihe lover's lace. 

" Where is she ?" at last gasped the Refugee. " She has not refused to 
come ? Tell me — has any accident befallen her by the way ? I know the 
forest is dark, and the wild path most dillicult — tell me : where is the lady 
for whom I sent you into the Rc1)el lines ?" 

For a moment, as the strange horror of that lover's face was before him, 
the Indian was silent. Then as his answer seemed trembling on liis lips, 
the ladies in yonder doorway, the officers from the ball-room, and the party 
round the table, formed a group around the; two central figures — the Indian, 
standing at the head of the table, his arms folded in his war-blatd;et — that 
young officer, half rising from his seat, his lips parted, his face ashy, his 
clenched hands resting on the dark mahogony of the table. 

The Indian answered first by an action, then by a word. 

First the action : Slowly drawing his right hand from his war-blanket, he 
held it in the light. That right hand clutched with blood-stained fingers, a 
bleeding scalp, and long and glossy locks of beautiful dark hair ! 

Then the word : " Young warrior sent the red man for the scalp of the 
pale-faced squaw ! Here it is !" 

Yes — the rude savage had mistaken his message ! Instead of bringing 
the bride to her lover's arms, he had gone on his way, determined to bring 
the scalp of the victim to the grasp of her pale face enemy. 

Not even a groan disturbed the silence of that dreadful moment. Look 
there ! The lover rises, presses that long hair — so black, so glossy, so 
beautiful — to his heart, and then — as tliough a huge weight, falling on his 
brain, had crushed him, fell with one dead sound on the hard floor. 

He lay there — stiff, and pale, and cold — his clenched right hand still 
clutching the bloody scalp, and the long dark hair falling in glossy tresses 
over the floor ! 



176 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

This was his bridal eve ! 

Now tell 1110, my IVinids, ymi wlio have heard some silly and ignorant 
pretender, jiitiluliy complain of llie dostitulion of Legend, Poetry, Romance, 
which characterises our National History — tell me, did you ever read a tra- 
dition of England, or France or Italy, or Spain, or any land under the 
Heavens, ihat miglit, in point of awful tragedy, compare with the simple 
History of David Jones and John M'Crea ? For it is but a scene from this 
narrative, with which you have all been familiar from childhood, that I have 
given you. 

Wiien the bridegroom, flung there on the floor, with the bloody scalp and 
long dark tresses in his hands, arose again to the terrible consciousness of 
life — those words trembled from Iiis lips, in a faint and husky whisper: 

" Do you rcmemhrr how, half an hour ago — 1 stood there — by iho table 
— silent, and pale, and horror-stricken — while you all started up round me, 
asking mo what horrid sight I saw ? Then, oh then, I beheld the horrid 
scene — that home, yonder by the Hudson river, mounting to Heaven in the 
smoke and flames ! The red forms of Indians going to and fro, amid flame 
and smoke — tomahawk and torch in hand ! There, amid dead bodies and 
smoking embers, I beheld her form — my bride — for whom I had sent the 
messenger — kneeling, pleading for mercy, even as the tomahawk crashed 
into her brain !" 

As the horrid picture again came o'er liis mind, he sank senseless again, 
still clutching that terrible memorial — the bloody scalp and long black hair! 

That was an awful Bridal Evi:. 

VIII. 

THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER; OR 
"WHO WAS Tiin hero of Saratoga r- 

Tiiert: was a day my friends, when the nation rung with the glory of 
the victor of Saratoga. 

The name of Horatio Gates was painted on banner, sung in liymns, 
flashed from transparencies, as the Captor of fiiirgoyne. 

IJcnedict Arnold was not in the battle at all, if we may believe in the 
bulletin of Gates, for his name is not even mentioned there. 

Yet I have a strange story to tell you, concerning the very battle, which 
supported as it is, by the solemn details of history, throws a strange light 
on the career of Ucncdict Arnold. 

It was the Seventh of October, 1777. 

Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfasfly upon the two 
armies, now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear bracing day, mellow 
with the richness of Autumn ; the skj' was cloudless, the foliage of the 
woods scarce tinged with purple and gold ; the buckwlieat on yonder fields, 
frosted into snowy ripeness. 

It was a calm, clear day, but the tread of legions sliook the ground. From 



THE BLACK HORSE AND HIH RIDER. I77 

every bush sliot the glimmer of tlie rifle biurel, on every hillside blazed the 
sharpened bayonet. Flags were there, loo, tossing in the breeze ; here the 
Banner of the Stars — yonder the lied Cross gonfalon. 

Here in solid lines were arrayed th6 Continental soliliers, pausing on 
their arms, tlieir homely costume lookinij but poor and humble, when com- 
pared with tlie Ijlaze of scarlet uniform.s, reddening along yonder iiills and 
over the distant fields. Ah, tiiat hunting shirt of blue was but a rude dress, 
yet on the lOtli of September, scarce two weeks ago, on tliese very hills, it 
taught the scarlet-coated IJriton a severe lesson of repentance and humility. 

Here, then, on the morning of this eventful day, which was to dcxide the 
fate of America, whether Gates should flee before Burgoyne, or Burgoyne 
lay down his arms at the feet of Gates, here at the door of his tent stood 
the American General, his countenance manifesting deep anxiety. 

Now he gazed upon the glittering array of Burgoyne, as it shone over 
yonder fields, and now his eye roved over those hardy men in hunting shirts, 
with rifles in their hands. lie remembered the contest of the 19th, when 
Benedict Arnold, at the head of certain bold riflemen, carried the day, Ijefore 
all the glitter of British arms ; and now — perchance — a fear seized him, that 
this 7th of October might be a dark day, for Arnold was not there. They 
had quarrelled, Arnold and Gates, about some matter of military courtesy ; 
the former was now without a commission ; the latter commanded, alone, 
and now would have to win glory for himself with his own hands. 

Gates was sad and thoughtful, as in all the array of his uniforn, he stood 
before his tent, watching the evolutions of the armies, but all at once a smoke 
arose, a thunder shook the ground, a chorus of siiouls and groans, yelled 
along the darkened air. The play of death was begun. The two flags — 
this of Stars, that of the Red Cross — tossed amid the smoke of battle, while 
the sky was clouded in leaden folds, and the earth throbbed as with the 
pulsation of a mighty heart. 

Suddenly Gates and his officers started with surprise. Along the gentle 
height on which they stood, there came a Warrior on a Black Horse, rush- 
ing 'toward the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of 
this Horse and his Uidcr, to strike them with surprise. Tlie Horse was a 
noble animal ; do you mark that expanse of chest, those slender yet sinewy 
limbs, that waving mane and tail ? Do you mark the head erect, those nos- 
trils quivering, that eye glaring with terrible light ? 'J'hen his color — the 
raven is not darker than his skin, or maiden's cheek more glossy than his 
spotless hide.* 



* There have been certain learned critics, who object to tliis similie. Tiicy state, 
with commendable gravity, that the idea of a liorse — even a war-liorsc, who ranka, 
in the scale of being, next 10 man — having a hide 'glossy as a maiden's cheeli," hurts 
their delicate perceptions. 'I'lieir experience teaches ihein, that the word ' glossy,' 
coupled witii * black,' inuh^t rcU-r Ui n * gluxny iluc/c nundrn.^ Had my ideas ran in 
that direction, I never would have penned the sentence ; but as I do not possess the 
large experience of these critics, in relation to 'African maidens,' I must even let 



178 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

Look upon lliat gallant slcci), nnil remember Ihe words of Job — 

Ilast lliou given ilio horse strength ! hnst thou clothed his neck witli thunder I 

Cnns't thouninke liim nl'riiid ns a grasshopper. The glory of his nostrils is terrible ! 

He pawelh in the viiUey, and rejoioeth in his strength; he gocth on to meet the 
armed men. 

He niockoih at fear and is not afTrighlcd ; neither mrnelh he back from the sword. 

The quiver ratihtli af^ainst him, the glittering spear and the shield. 

Ho swalhnveth the ground with lierceness and rage ; neither bclieveth he that it is 
the sound of the trumpet. 

He saiih among tlic trumpets, Ha I ha! and he smcllcth the battle afar oil", the 
thunder of the captains and the shouting. 

lUil the Uiiler presents also a sight of strange and peculiar interest. lie 
is a man of muscular form, with a dark brow gathered in a frown, a darker 
eye, shooting its glance from beneath the projecting forehead. His lip is 
compressed — his cravat, unloosened, e.\poses the veins of his bared throat, 
now writhing like scrprtils. It is plain that his spirit is with the distant 
battle, for ncitiitr looking to the right or left, not even casting a glance aside 
to Gates, he glares over his horse's head toward the smoke of conflict. 

No sword waves in his grasp, but while the rein hangs on his horse's 
neck, his hands rest by his side, the fingers quivering witli tiic saine agita- 
tion that blazes over his face. 

Altogether it is a magnilicent sight, that warrior in the blue uniform on 
his Black Horse, who moves along the sod at a brisk walk, his tail and mane 
tossing on the breeze. And as the noble horse moves on, the soldier speaks 
to him, and calls him by name, and lays his right hand on his glossy neck. 

" Ho ! Wariikn — forward !" 

Tlien that ISlack Horse — named after tlie friend of the soldier, a friend 
who now is sleeping near Bunker Hill, where he fell — darts forward, with 
one sudden bound, and is gone like a flash toward the distant battle. 

This brief scene, this vision of the Horse and his Rider, struck Gates 
with unfeigned chagrin, his otlicers with unmingled surprise. 

" Ariustrong !" shouted Gates, turning to a brave man by his side, " Pur- 
sue that man ! Tell him it is my command that he returns from the tield. 
Away ! Do not lose a minute, for he will do something rash, if left to 
himself r 

Armstrong springs to his steed, and while tlie heaven above, and the broad 
sweeps of woods and fields yonder, are darkened by the smoke of conflict, 
he pursues the Black Horse and his Rider. 

But that Rider looks over his shoulder with a smile of scorn on his lip, 
a scowl of defiance on his brow. Look ! He draws his sword — the sharp 



the sentence stand as ii is. They also object to the horse ; sayinc piteoiisly — " You 
make him n hero !" I have no doubt tliey would prefer for a licro, an e.tcellent 
.inimnl, noted for his deep throat and long cars. .My taste inclines in a dill'erent 
direction. 



THE CLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER. 179 

blade quivors in tlic air. He points to the battle, and lo ! he is gone — gone 
through yonder clouds — while his shout echoes over the fields. 

Wjiercver the fight is thickest, through the intervals of battle smoke 
and cannon glare, you may see, riding madly forward, that strange soldier, 
mounted on his steed, black as death. 

Look at him, as with his face red with British blood, he waves his sword, 
and shouts to the legions. Now you see him fighting in that cannon's 
glare, the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up 
the steep clifl". 

Is it not a magnificent sight, to sec that nameless soldier, and tliat noble 
Black Steed, dasliing like a meteor through the long columns of battle .' 

And all the while. Major Armstrong, spurring his steed to the utmost, 
pursues him, but in vain. He shouts to him, but the warrior cannot hear. 
He can see the Black Horse, through the lifted folds of battle-smoke, now 
and then he hears the Rider's shout. 

" Warren ! IIo ! Warren ! Upon them — charge !" 

Let us look in for a moment through these clouds of battle. Hero, over 
this thick hedge, bursts a band of American militia men — their rude farmer's 
coats stained with their blood — while, scattering their arms by the way, 
they flee before yonder company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing 
forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle-light. 

In the moment of their flight, a Black Horse crashes over the field. 
The unknown warrior reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the 
path of this broad-shouldered militia man. 

" Now, coward, advance another step, and I will shoot you to the heart !" 
shouts the rider, extending a pistol in either hand. " What ! are you 
Americans — mm — and fly before these British soldiers ? Back and face 
them once more — seize your arms — face the foe, or I myself will ride you 
down !" 

That appeal, uttered with deep, indignant tones, and a face convulsed 
with passion, is not without its effect. The militia man turns, seizes his 
gun ; his comrades as if by one impulse, follow his example. They form 
in solid order along the field, and silently load their pieces ; they wait the 
onset of those Britisli bayonets. 

" Reserve your fire until you can touch the point of their bayonets !" 
was the whispered command of the Unknown. Those militia-men, so lately 
panic-stricken, now regard the approach of the red-coats in silence, yet 
calmly and without a tremor. The British came on — nearer and nearer 
yet — you can see their eyes gleam, you can count the buttons on their 
scarlet coats. They seek to terrify the militia-men with shouts ; but those 
plain farmers do not move an inch. 

In one line — but twenty men in all — they confront thirty sharp bayonets. 

The British advance — they are within two yards. 

" Now upon the rebels — charge bayonet !" shouted the red-coat oflicer. 



180 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

They spring forward, with the same bound — look ! Their bayonets al- 
most touch the muzzles of these rifles ! 

At this niomoiil the voice of the Rider was heard. 

"Now let tlicin h;ivo \l—fire .'" 

A sound is lieaid — a smoke is seen — twenty Britons are down, some 
writhing in dealii, some crawling along the sod, some spopcliless as stone. 
Tiie remaining ten start back — but then is no time for surprise. 

" Club your rifles, and charge them iiome !" shouts the Unknown, and 
the Black Horse springs forward, followed by the militia-men. Then a 
confused conflict— a cry of " quarter !" — a vision of the twenty farmers 
grouped around the Rider of the Black Horse, greeting him with hearty 
cheers. 

Thus it was aU the day long. 

AVhercvcr that Black Horse and his Rider went, there followed victory. 
The soldiers in every part of tjic Add seemed to know that Rider, for they 
hailed him with shouts, they obeyed his commands, they rushed after him, 
over yonder cannon, tlirougii yonder line of bayonets. His appearance in 
any quarter of the fleld was succeeded by a desperate onset, u terrible 
charge, or a struggle hand to hand with the soldiers of Burgoyne. 

Was this not a strange thing? Tiiis unknown man, without a command 
was obeyed by all the soldiers, as though they recognized their General. 
They acknowledged him for a Leader, wherever he rode ; they followed 
him to death wherever lie gave the word. 

Now look for him again ! 

On the summit of yonder liill, the Black Horse stands erect on his 
haunches, his fore-legs pawing the air, while the rider bends over his neck, 
and looks toward the clouded valley. The hat has fallen from that Rider's 
brow ; his face is covered with sweat and blood ; his right-hand grasps that 
battered sword. How impressive that sight, as an occasional sun-gleam 
lights the Rider's brow, or a red flash of battle-light, bathes his face, as in 
rays of blood ! 

.\t this moment, as the black steed rears on the summit of the hill, look 
yonder from the opposite valley, dashes Major Armstrong, in search of that 
Unknown Rider, who sees him coming, turns his horse's head and disai)- 
pears with a laugh of scorn. Siill the gallant Major keeps on his way, in 
search of this man, who excites the fears of General Gales — this brave 
Rider, who was about to do " something ras/i." 

At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. 

That Ibrtress yonder on Behmus Height, was to be won, or the Ameri- 
can cause was lost. 

That fortress was to be gained, or Gates was a dishonored man ; Bur- 
goyne a triumphant General. 



THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER. 181 

That fortress yonder — you can see it through the battle-clouds — with its 
wall of red-coats, its lines of British cannon, its forest of bayonets. 

Even those bold riflemen, who were in the wilderness with one Benedict 
Arnold, who stormed the walls of Quebec, with this Arnold and Montgomery, 
on that cold daybreak of December thirty-first, 1775, even those men of 
iron fell back, terrified at the sight. 

That clifli' is too steep — that death is too certain. Their officers cannot 
persuade them to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even 
Morgan — that Iron Man among Iron Men — leans on his rifle, and despairs 
of the field. 

But look yonder ! In this moment, while all is dismay and horror, here, 
crashing on, comes the Black Horse and his Rider. 

That Rider bends from his steed ; you can see his phrenzied face, now 
covered with sweat, and dust, and blood. He lays his hand on that bold 
rifleman's shoulder. 

" Come on !" he cries ; "you will not fail me now !" 

The rifleman knows that face, that voice. As though living fire had 
been poured into his veins, he grasps his rifle, and starts toward the rock. 

" Come on !" cries the Rider of the Black Horse, turning from one 
scarred face to another. " Come on ! you will not fail me now !" 

He speaks in that voice which thrills their blood. 

" You were with me in the Wilderness !" he cries to one ; " and you at 
Quebec !" he shouts to anotlier ; " do you remember ?" 

" And you at Montreal !" 

" And vou, there on Lake Champlain ! You know me— you have 
known me long ! Have I ever spoken to you in vain ? I speak to you 
now — do you see that Rock ? Come on '." 

And now look, and now hold your breath as that black steed crashes up 
the steep rock ! Ah, that steed quivers — he totters — he falls I No, no ! 
Still on, still up the rock, still on toward the fortress ! 

Now look again — his Rider turns his face 

" Come on, Men of Quebec, where I lead, you will follow !" 

But that cry is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. 
And up and onward, one fierce bolt of battle, with that Warrior on his Black 
Steed, leading the dread way, sweep the Men of the Wilderness, the Heroes 
of Quebec. 

Now pour your fires, British cannon. Now lay the dead upon the rock, 
in tens and twenties. Now — hirelings — shout your British battle-cry if 
you can ! 

For look, as the battle-smoke clears away, look there, in the gate of the 
fortress for the Black Steed and his Rider ! 

That Steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls, but there his Rider 
waves the Banner of the Stars, there — as the British cry for quarter, he lifts 

21 



182 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

up his voice, and shouts iffar to Horatio Gates, waiting yonder in his tent; 
he tells him that — 

" Saratoga is won !" 

And look ! As that shout goes up to heaven, he falls upon his Steed, 
with his leg shattered by a cannon ball. 

He lays there, on his dead Steed, bleeding and insensible, while his 
hand, laid over the neck of the gallant Horse, still grasps the Banner of the 
Stars. 

Who was the Rider of the Black Horse ? Do you not guess his name ? 
Then bend down and gaze upon that shattered limb, and you will see that 
it bears the scars of a former wound — a hideous wound it must have been. 
Now, do you not guess his name ? That wound was received at the 
Storming of Quebec ; tliat Rider of tlie Black Horse was Benedict 
Arnold. 

In this hour, while the sun was setting over the field of the Seventh of 
October — while the mists of batde lay piled in heavy clouds above the walls 
of the conquered fortress, — here, up the steep rock came Major Armstrong, 
seeking for the man who "might do something rash!" 

He found him at last, but it was in tlie gate of the fortress, on the body 
of the dead steed, bleeding from his wound, that he discovered the face of 
Benedict Arnold, the Victor of Behmus Heights. 

This was not the moment to deliver the message of Gates. No ! for this 
Rash Man had won laurels for his brow, defeated Burgoyne for him, rescued 
the army from disgrace and defeat. He had done something — rash. 

Therefore, Armstrong, brave and generous as he was, bent over the 
wounded man, lifted him from among the heaps of dead, and bore him to a 
place of repose. 

Would it be credited by persons unacquainted with our history — would 
the fact which I record with blushes and shame for the pettiness of human 
nature, be believed, unless supported by evidence that cannot lie ? 

General Gales, in his bulletin of the battle, did not mention the name 
of Benedict Arnold ! 

Methinks, even now, I see the same Horatio flying from the bloody field 
of Camden — where an army was annihilated — his hair turning white as 
snow, as he pursues his terrible flight, without once resting for eighty miles 
— methinks I hear him call for another Arnold, to win this battle, as 
Saratoga was won ! 

The conduct of Arnold in this battle became known, in spite of the 
dastardly opposition of his enemies, and — says a distinguished and honest 
historian — Congress relented at this late hour with an ill-grace, and sent 
him a commission, giving him the full rank which he claimed. 

He was now in truth, crowned as he stood, with the laurels of the Wil- 



ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELrHL4. 183 

(lerness, Quebec and Saratoga, Major General Arnold, of the Continental 
Army. 

At the same time that George Washington received the account of Ar- 
nold's daring at Saratoga, he also received from a Nobleman of France, three 
splendid sets of epaulettes and sword-knots, with the request to retain one 
for himself, and bestow the others on the two bravest men of his army. 

George Washington sent one set of epaulettes with a sword-knot to Ben- 
edict Arnold. 

When we next look for Arnold, we find him confined to his room, with 
a painful wound. For the entire winter the limb which had been first 
broken at Quebec, broken again at Saratoga, kept him a prisoner in the 
close confinement of his chamber. 

Then let us behold him entering New Haven, in triumph as the Hero of 
Saratoga. There are troops of soldiers, the thunder of cannon, little chil- 
dren strewing the way with flowers. 

Was it not a glorious welcome for the Druggist, who two years ago, was 
pasting labels on phials in yonder drug store ? 

— A glorious welcome for the little boy, who used to strew the road with 
pounded glass, so that other litde boys might cut their feet ? — 

In this hour of Arnold's triumph, when covered with renown, he comes 
back to his childhood's home, may we not imagine his Mother looking from 
Heaven upon the glory of her child ? Yes, sainted Mother of Arnold, who 
long years ago, laid your babe upon the sacramental altar, baptized with the 
tears and prayers of a Mother's agony, now look from heaven, and pray to 
God that he may die, with all his honorable wounds about him ! 

IX.— ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELPHIA. 

Let us look for Arnold again ! 

We will find him passing through the streets of old Philadelphia, in his 
glittering coach, with six splendid horses, and liveried outriders ; riding in 
state as the Governor of Philadelphia. 

Then we look for him again. In the dim and solemn aisle of Christ 
Church, at the sunset hour, behold a new and touching scene in the life of 
Benedict Arnold. 

It is the sunset hour, and through the shadows of the range of pillars, 
which support the venerable roof of the church, the light of the declining 
day, streams in belts of golden sunshine. 

As you look, the sound of the organ fills the church, and a passing ray 
streams over the holy letters, I H S. 

There beside the altar are grouped the guests, there you behold the Priest 
of God, arrayed in his sacerdotal robe, and there — 0, look upon them well, 
in this last hour of the summer day — the centre of the circle, stand the 
Bridegroom and Bride. 



184 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

A lovely girl, scarce eighteen years in age, with golden hair and eyes of 
deep clear blue, rests her small hand upon a warrior's arm, and looks up 
lovingly into his battle-worn face. She is clad in silks, and pearls, and gold. 
He in the glorious uniform of the Revolution, tlic blue coat, faced with buff 
and fringed with gold. The sword that hangs by his side, has a story all 
its own to tell. Look ! As the sunshine gleams upon its hilt of gold, does 
it not speak of Ticonderoga, Quebec, and Saratoga ? 

And in tlic deep serenity of this evening hour — while the same glow of 
sunshine gilds the white monuments in yonder graveyard, and reveals the 
faces of the wedding guests — Benedict Arnold, in the prime of a renowned 
manhood, having seen thirty-eight years of life, in all its phases — on the 
ocean, in battle, amid scenes of blood and death — links his fate forever with 
that queenly girl, whose romance and passion in love of power, are written 
in two emphatic words — beautiful and eighteen ! 

Yes, in the aisle of Christ Church, the Hero of Quebec, hears the word 
— husband — whispered by this young girl, who combines the witchery of a 
syren, with the intellect of a genius ; the Tory daughter of a Tory father. 

And as the last note of the organ dies away, along the aisles, tell me, can 
you not see the eye of that young wife, gleam with a light that is too intense 
for love, too vivid for hope ? That deep and steady gleam looks to me like 
a fire, kindled at the altar of Ambition. The compression of that parting 
lip, the proud arch of that white neck, the queenly tread of that small foot, 
all bespeak the consciousness of power. 

Does the the wife of Benedict Arnold, looking through a dark and troubled 
future, behold the darkness dissipated by the sunshine of a Royal Court ? 
Does she — with that young breast heaving with impatient ambition — already 
behold Arnold the Patriot, transformed into Arnold the Courtier — and 
Traitor ? 

Future pages of this strange history, alone can solve these questions. 

We must look at Arnold now, as by this marriage and his important 
position — the Military Commander of the greatest city on the Continent — 
he is brought into contact with a proud and treacherous aristocracy — as he 
feasts, as he drinks, as he revels with them. 

From that hour, date his ruin. 

That profligate and treacherous aristocracy, would ruin an angel from 
heaven, if an angel could ever sink so low, as to be touched by the poison 
of its atmosphere. 

We can form our estimate of the character of this Aristocracy in the 
Revolution, from the remnant which survives among us, at the present hour. 
Yes, we have it among us yet, existing in an organized band of pretenders, 
whose political and religious creed is comprised in one word — England — 
lovers of monarchy and every thing tiiat looks like monarchy, in the shape 
of privileged orders, and chartered infamies ; Tory in heart now, as they 
were Tories in speech, in the days of the Revolution. 



ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELPHIA. 185 

I never think of this Aristocracy, without being reminded of those Italian 
mendicanls, who are seen in your streets, clad in shabby tinsel, too proud 
to work the work of lionest toil, and yet not too proud to obtain a livelihood 
by the tricks of a juggler and mountebank. 

— I do not mean the aristocracy of worth, or beauty, or intellect, which gets 
its title-deeds from God, and wears its coat of arms in the heart, and which 
if ever man saw, 1 see before me now * 

But I do mean that aristocracy, whose heraldry is written in the same 
ledger of a broken bank, that chronicles the wholesale robbery of the widow 
and the orphan, by privileged theft and chartered fraud. 

If we must have an Aristocracy, o.' in other words a privileged class, en- 
titled by law to trample on those who toil, eat their bread, and strip from 
them one by one, the holy rights for which their fathers fought in the Rev- 
olution, let us I pray you, have a Nobility, like that of England, made 
respectable by the lineage of a few hundred years. Let us — if we must 
have an Aristocracy — constitute by law, every survivor of the Revolution, 
every child of a hero of the Past, a Noble of the Land. This will at least 
bear some historical justice on its face. 

But to make these Tory children of Tory fathers, a privileged order, is it 
not a very contemptable thing ? As laughable as the act of the Holy Alli- 
ance, who established the Restoration of the Bourbons, on the foundation 
laid by Napoleon. 

We have all seen the deeds of the Tory Aristocracy of Philadelphia. 
To-day, it starves some poor child of genius — whom it has deluded with 
hopes of patronage — and suffers him to go starving and mad, from the quiet 
of his studio, to the darkness of the Insane Asylum. To-morrow, it 
parades in its parties, and soirees some pitiful foreign vagrant, who calls him- 
self a Count or Duke, and wears a fierce beard, and speaks distressing Eng- 
lish. This aristocracy never listens to a lecture on science, or history, 
much less a play from Shakspeare, but at the same time, will overflow a 
theatre, to hear a foreign mountebank do something which is called singing, 
or to witness the indecent postures of some poor creature, who belies the 
sacred name of Woman, which obscene display is entitled dancing. 

There is nothing which this aristocracy hates so fervently, as Genius, 
native to the soil. It starved and neglected that great original mind, Charles 
Brockden Brown, and left him to die in his solitary room, while all Europe 
was ringing with his praise. 

It never reads an American book, unless highly perfumed and sweetened 
with soft words, and tricked out in pretty pictures. It takes its history, 
literature, religion, second-hand from England, and bitterly regrets that the 
plainness of our Presidential office, is so strong contrasted with the impe- 



• On the occasion of the third lecture, before the Wirt Institute. 



180 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

rial grandeur of Great Britain's hereditary sovereign — a Queen, who imports 
a husband from the poverty of some German Kingdom, three miles square, 
and saddles lier People with an annual Prince or Princess, whose advent 
costs one hundred tliousand yellow guineas. 

This aristocracy never can tolerate native Genius. Because, in its fer- 
menting corruption, it resembles a hot-bed, it plausibly fancies that every- 
thing which springs from such a soil, must be at once worthless and 
ephemeral. 

In one word, when we survey its varied phrases of pretension and mean- 
ness, we must regret, that some bold Lexicographer had not poured into one 
syllable, the whole vocabulary of scorn, in order to coin a word to be ap- 
plied to this thing, which always creeps when it attempts to fly, crawls 
when it would soar — this Aristocracy of the Quaker City. 

This Tory aristocracy existed in full vigor, at the lime Arnold assumed 
the command in Philadelphia. 

You will observe that his position was one of singular difliculty ; AVash- 
ington himself would not have given general satisfaction, had lie been in 
Arnold's place. In after time, Jackson at New Orleans, excited the enmity 
of a bitter faction, because he held the same power, which Arnold once 
exercised — that of a Military Governor, who commands in the same town 
with a Civil Magistracy. 

You will remember, that the very Aristocracy, who yesterday had been 
feasting General Howe, sharing the orgies of the British soldiery, swimming 
in the intoxication of the Mcschianza, were now patriots of the first water. 
The moment the last British boat pushed from the wharf, these gentlemen 
changed their politics. The sound of the first American trooper's liorse, 
echoing through the streets of the city, accomplisiied their conversion. 
Yesterday, Monarchists, Tories ; to-day. Patriots, Whigs, these gentlemen, 
with dexterity peculiar to their race, soon crept into positions of power and 
trust. 

From their prominence, as well as from his marriage with Miss Shippen, 
Arnold was thrown into constant intimacy with these pliable politicians. 

Having grounded these facts well in your minds, you will be prepared to 
hear the grumbling of these ncwly-pledgcd patriots, when Arnold — who 
yesterday was such a splendid fellow, sprinkling his gold in banquets and 
festivals — obeyed a Resolution of the Continental Congress, and by procla- 
mation, prohibited the sale of all goods, in the city, until it was ascertained 
whether any of the property belonged to the King of Great Britain or his 
subjects. 

This touched the Tory-Whigs on the tenderest point. Patriotism was a 
beautiful thing with them, so long as it vented itself in fine words ; but 
when it touched King George's property, or the property of King George's 
friends, they began to change their opinion. 

Their indignation knew no bounds. Thev dared not attack Washington, 



ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELPHIA. 187 

they dared not assail the Congress. Therefore, they opened their batteries 
of malignancy and calumniation against Arnold. 

Where that brave man had one fault, they magnified it into ten. Where 
lie was guilty of one wrong act, they charged him with a thousand. 

Not seven months of Arnold's command had transpired, before Congress 
and Washington were liarrassed with letters asking for the trial and disgrace 
of Arnold. 

At last the matter was brought before Congress, and a Committee of that 
body, after a thorough examination, gave to Benedict Arnold, " a vindication 
from any criminalty in the matters charged against him." 

Then the war was opened against Arnold anew ; then the Mob — not the 
mechanics or men of toil — but the Rabble who do no work, and yet have 
time to do all the riots in your large cities, were taught to hoot his name in 
scorn, to stone him in the streets, him, the Hero of Quebec. Yes, the out- 
casts of the city, were taught to cover him with filth, to wound with their 
missiles, the very limb that had been broken by a cannon ball, on the barrier 
of Quebec. 

Congress did not act upon the Report of the Committee. Why was this ? 
That report was referred to a joint Comniitte of Congress and the Assem- 
bly. At last General Wasliington was harrassed into appointing a Court 
Martial. It was done, the day fixed, but the accusers of Arnold were not 
ready for trial. Yes, loud as tlicy were in their clamors, they asked delay 
after delay, and a year passed. 

All the while, these men were darkening the character of Arnold, all the 
while he stood before the world in the light of an untried criminal. The 
Hero of Quebec was denied a right, which is granted to the vilest felon. 
Accused of a crime, he was refused tlie reasonable justice of a speedy trial. 

At last, after his accusers had delayed the trial, on various pretences, after 
the sword of the 'unconvicted criminal,' resigned on the 18th of March, 
1779, had been taken up again by him, on the 1st of June, the day ap- 
pointed for his trial, in order to defend his country once again, at last, on 
the 20tli of December, 1779, tiie Court Martial was assembled at tlie head- 
quarters of Washington, near Morristown. 

At last the day came — Arnold was tried — and after a month consumed in 
the careful examination of witnesses and papers, was found guilty of two 
colossal enormities. Before we look at them, let us remember, that his 
accusers, on this occasion, were General Joseph Reed, and other members 
of the Supreme Executive council of Peimsylvania. 

Here are the oflfences : 

I. Jin irregularily, without criminal intention, in f^runting n written 
protection to a vessel, before his comiinmd in Philadelphia, while at J'al- 
ley Forge. 

n. Using the public wagons of Pennsylvania, for the transporta- 
tion OF PRIVATE property FRO.tl EqG HaRUOU. 



188 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

Those were his colossal crimes ! 

The other two cliarges were passed aside by the court. 

It was upon tiicso charges that the whole prosecution rested — a military 
irregularity in granting a written protection, before he assumed command in 
Pliiladolpliia, and — O, the enormity of llie crime almost exceeds the power 
of belief — a sacriiigious use of the baggage wagons of Pennsylvania ! 

For this Benedict Arnold had been pursued for at least thirteen months, 
with a malignity insatiable as the blood-hounds thirst. For this he had 
been hold up to all tiie world as a criminal, lor this pelted in the streets, and 
for this, the Hero of Quebec and Saratoga and Champlain, was to be pub- 
licly disgraced, RcniiMANDED by Gkorge Washington. 

Let us hear what that honest man, Jared Sparks, says of the matter : 

" // teas propcil to the court, that although the wagons had been em- 
ployed for transporting private properly, they were nevertheless used at 
private expense, without a design to defraud the public, or impede the 
military service." 

And the man who had poured out his blood like water, on the frozen 
ground of Quebec, was to be stamped with eternal infamy for " vsino the 

PUBLIC WAGONS OF Pe.NXSYLVANIA !" 

You will pardon the italics and capitals. These words ought to be in- 
scribed in letters of lire on a column of adamant ! 

Is it possible for an honest man to read this part of the tragedy, without 
feeling the blood boil in his veins ? 

My friends, here is the only belief we can entertain in relation to this 
matter. At liic same lime that we admit that Arnold was betrayed into 
sejrious faults ilirougli his intimacy with the Tory aristocracy of PhUadel- 
phia, as well as from tiie inherent rashness of his character — that very 
rashness forming one of the elements of his iron-souled bravery — we must 
also admit, that among the most prominent of his accusers or persecutors, 
as you please, — was " a man ivhose foot had once been lifted to take the 
step rrhich Arnold afterwards took."' 

Before large and respectable audiences of my countrj-men, assembled in 
at least three Slates of this Union, I have repeatedly stated that I was 
" prepared to prove this fact, from evidence that cannot lie." No answer 
was ever made lo the assertion. In the public papers I have repeated the 
statement, expressing my readiness to meet anv person, in a frank and 
searching discussion of the question — Was .irnold's chief accuser in heart 
a Traitor? Still no answer ! 

It is true, that other and unimportant points of my history have been 
fiercely attacked. For example, when following the finger of history, I 
awarded to .Vrnold the glory of SaratOija, a very respectable but decidedly 
anonymous critic, brought all his artillery to bear upon a line, which had a 
reference to the preparation of buckwheat cakes! 

So, when I expressed my readiness to examine the character of Arnold's 



ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELPHIA, igg 

chief accuser, a very prominent individual, who has made that accuser's 
deeds the subject of laborious and filial panegyric, instead of meeting the 
question like a man, crept away into some dark corner of history, and called 
a sincere patriot by the portentous name of — Infidel ! This was very much 
like tlie case of the patriot John Bull, who, hearing a Frenchman examme 
the character of George the Tliird, in no very measured terms, replied by a 
bitter attack on the Emperor of Timbuctoo ! 

Having therefore, repeatedly stated that I was ready to give a careful and 
impartial investigation of the history of Arnold's chief accuser, I will now 
enter upon tlie subject as a question comprised within the limits of legiti- 
mate history. 

Is it not reasonable to suppose, that the man who took upon himself the 
work of crushing lienedict Arnold, must have been a very good citizen, a 
very sincere patriot, and if not a great warrior, at least a very honest 
statesman ? 

Have we not a right to examine the character of this accuser ? Remem- 
ber — this trial and disgrace of Arnold, was the main cause of his treason — 
and then dispute our right to search the character of his Accuser, if you can. 

Let us then, summon a solemn Court of history. Let us invoke the 
Ghost of Washington to preside over its deliberations. Yes, approaching 
that Ghost, with an awful reverence, let us ask this important question. 

" Was not General John Cadwallader your bosom friend, O, Washington, 
the man whose heart and hand j'ou implicitly trusted ? Dill he not defend 
you from the calumniation of your enemies ? Was he nol, in one word, a 
Knight of the Revolution, without fear and without reproach ?" 

And the word that answers our question, swelling from the lips of Wash- 
ington, is — " Yes !" 

We will ask another question. 

" In the dark days of December, 1776, when with a handful of half-clad 
men, you opposed the entire force of the British army, on the banks of the 
Delaware, who then, 0, Washington, stood by your side, shared in your 
counsels, and received your confidence ?" 

" Benedict Arnold !" 

If these answers, which the Ghost of Washington whispers from every 
page of history, be true, it follows that General John Cadwallader is an im- 
partial witness in ibis case, and that Benedict Arnold was a sincere Patriot 
in the winter of 1776. 

Then let us listen to the details of facts, stated by General Cadwallader, 
and by him published to the world, attested by his proper signature. 

22 



">.* 



190 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 



X.— WHO WAS THIS ACCUSER1 

In December, 1776, a few days before the battle of Trenton, in tlie dark- 
est hour of the Rrvohilion, when Washington and his army were menaced 
with immediate destruction, an important conversation tools place at Bristol, 
on the banks of the Delaware. 

The interlocutors were John Cadwallader and the Adjutant General of 
the Continental Army. 

The conversation was explicit ; no disguise about its meaning, not a 
doubt in the sound or purport of its every word. 

The adjutant general of the Continental army, to whom Washington had 
entrusted duties, involving, in tlieir faithful performance, the well-being, 
perchance the existence of that army, remarked to General Cadwallader : 

" That he did not understand following the fortunes of a broken-down 
and shattered army " 

At the very moment that he said this, Benedict Arnold was out yonder, 
on the brink of the ice-bound river, assisting with his heart and hand, the 
movements of George Washington. 

But sheltered by the convenient silence of a comfortable chamber, the 
Adjutant General continued: 

" That the time allowed by General Howe, for offering pardons and 
protections to persons ivho would come in, before the Isl of January, 1777, 
hud nearly expired " 

The philosophical nature of this remark becomes evident, when you re- 
member that at the very hour when the Adjutant General spoke, there was 
a price set upon tlie head of tiic Rebel Washington. 

" ^nd — " continued this Adjutant General — " J have advised (he Lieu- 
tenant Colonel, my brother, now at Burlington, to remain there, and take 
protection and swear allegiance, and in so doing he tvill be perfectly 
justifiable." 

You will all admit, that this was beautiful and refreshing language from 
any one, especially Irom the Adjutant General of the Continental army. 

Much more was said of similar import, but the amount of the whole con- 
versation was in one word, that the Adjutant General, tired and sick of 
the Rebel cause, was about to swear allegiance to his Majesty, King 
George. 

General Cadwallader, the bosom friend of Washington, heard these re- 
marks with surprise, with deep sorrow. From pity to the Adjutant Gen- 
eral, he locked tiiem within the silence of his own breast, until the brilliant 
attack at Trenton, which took place a few days afterwards, made it a safe 
as well as comfortable thing, for the trembling patriot to remain true to his 
country's (lag. 



WHO WAS THIS ACCUSER? 191 

Time passed, and General Cadwallader connmunicated this conversation 
to certain prominent men of the lime, lhini<ing it better from motives of 
kindness, to avoid a public exposure of tlie Adjutant General's intended 
Treason. 

But in the year 1778, a circumstance took place which forced the truth 
from the lips of this memorable witness. 

It was in a Court of Justice. A young man charged with Treason, was 
on trial for his life. The Adjutant General, now transformed into an At- 
torney General, urged his conviction with all the vehemence of which he 
was capable. There may have been some extenuating circumstances in the 
young man's case, or perhaps, the manner of the Attorney General, betrayed 
more than patriotic zeal, for General Cadwallader a spectator in the Court, 
filled with indignation that he could not master, uttered these memorable 
words : 

" It argues the effrontery of baseness — " said the brave officer, directing 
his-eagle eye toward the Attorney General — "in one man to pursue an- 
other man to death, for taking a step which his own foot had once been 
raised to take." 

These were hard words. The steady look and pointed finger, and deep 
voice of Cadwallader, made them intelligible to the entire Court. 
The Adjutant General never forgot them. 

In the course of some four or five years, a discussion was provoked, fact 
after fact came out in its proper colors, and General Cadwallader accused 
the Adjutant General before the whole world, of the painful dereliction 
elated in the previous pages. 

He did not merely accuse, but supported his accusation by such evidence 
that we are forced to the conclusion in plain words, that either the Adjutant 
General was a Traitor in heart, speech and purpose, or General Cadwal- 
lader was a gross calumniator. 

'J'he evidence which he produced in his published pamphlet, was a thou- 
sand times stronger than that which stripped the laurel from Arnold's brow. 
As a part of this evidence, we find a letter from Alexander Hamilton, dated 
Philada. March 14, 1783, in which that distinguished statesman affirms his 
remembrance of a conversation, which occurred between him and General 
Cadwallader, in '77, and which embraced a distinct narrative of the derelic- 
tion of the Adjutant General in December, '76. 

Benjamin Rush, and other eminent men of that time, by letters dated 5th 
Oct. 1782, March 12, 1783, and March 3, 1783, either record their re- 
membrance of a conversation, with General Cadwallader, in which he nar- 
rated the treasonable sentiments of the Adjutant General, or distinctly af- 
firm a conversation with that individual himself, had before the battle of 
Trenton, and full of Disloyalty to the Continental cause. 

Alexander Hamilton and Benjamin Rush, were never given to falsehood. 
And then comes a statement from Major Wm. Bradford, which dated 



102 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

March 15, 1783, strips the Adjutant General of every vesliire of patriotism. 
This brave officer states, that while he was at Bristol, in command of the 
Philadelphia militia, in 1776, the Mjutanl General went over to Burling- 
ton, where the enemy were, and was gone three days and nights. It was 
the opinion of Col. Bayard, that he had gone over to swear allegiance to 
King George. 

Such is but a portion of the testimony, presented in the memorable 
pamphlet, signed by the bosom friend of Washington, John Cadwallader. 

This case demands no elaborate argument, no expenditure of invective. 
Either the Adjutant General was a Traitor, or John Cadwallader a * « « ». 

There is no skulking away from the question. One way or other it 
must be decided by every honest man, who peruses the evidence. 

You will remember that I give no opinion about the matter. There are 
the facts ; judge every honest man for himself. That John Cadwallader 
was no base calumniator, is attested by the records of history, by the 
friendship of Washington. 

To what fearful conclusion then, are we led ? 

That the Adjutant General in the dark days of 1776, not only avowed 
his intention of deserting the Continental army, but was in fact, three days 
and nights in the camp of the enemy. 

Was this the conduct of a Patriot, or — it is a dark word, and burns the 
forehead on which it is branded — A Traitor ! 

This adjutant general, was General Joseph Reed, President of the Su- 
preme Council of Pennsylvania, and the prominent accuser of Benedict 
Arnold. 

In his defence before the Court Martial, Arnold used these words : 
— " I can with boldness say to my persecutors in general, and to the 
chief of them in particular — that in the hour of danger, when the affairs of 
America wore a gloomy aspect, when our illustrious general was retreating 
through America, with a handful of men, I did not propose to my associates 
basely to quit the General, and sacrifice the cause of my country to my per- 
sonal safety, by going over to the enemy, and making my peace." — 

Can you see his eye flash, as he looks upon the " Chief of his Per- 
secutors ?" 

XI.— THE DISGRACE OF ARNOLD. 

At last the day of the Reprimand came — Father of Mercy what a scene! 

That man Arnold, brave and proud as Lucifer, standing among the gene- 
rals, beside whom he had fought and bled — standing the centre of all 
eyes, in the place of the Criminal, with the eye of Washington fi.xed upon 
him in reproof — with a throng of the meaner things of the Revolution, 
wh m the British King might have bought, had he thought them worth the 



I 



THE DISGRACE OF ARNOLD. 193 

buying, grouped about him ; these petty men — who had been warming 
themselves at comfortable fires, while the hands of Arnold were freezing on 
the ramparts of Quebec — exulting at his disgrace, glorying in his shame, 
chuckling at his fall 

It was too much for Arnold. That moment the iron entered his soul, 
and festered there. 

From that moment he stood resolved in his work of treason. From that 
moment his country lost a soldier, history one of her brightest names, 
Washington his right-hand man, the Revolution its bravest Knight. In one 
word, from that moment John Andre lost his life, Benedict Arnold his 
honor ; Sir Henry Clinton gained a — Traitor. 

He could have borne reproof from the lips of Washington, but to be re- 
buked while the dwarf-patriots were standing by, while the little ' great 
men' were lookers on ! — It was indeed, too much for Arnold. 

It is true, that the reprimand of Washington was the softest thing that 
might bear tlie name — " 1 reprimand you for havmg forgot/en, (hat in 
proportion us yoii have rendered yourself formidable to our enemies, you 
shoidd have shown moderation toivards our citizens. Exhibit again 
those splendid qualities, which have placed you in the rank of our most 
distinguished generals.'''' — 

These ■vHre the words of Washington, worthy of his hero-heart, but 
from that moment, Arnold the Patriot was dead. 

At that instant from the terrible chaos of dark thoughts, wounded pride, 
lacerated honor, sprung into birth a hideous phantom, known by histor)- as 
— Arnold the Traitor. 

Had he but taken the advice of Washington, had he but looked derision 
upon his foes ! Raising himself in all his proud height, liis eye blazing 
with that stern fire which lighted up his bronzed face on the ramparts of 
Quebec, his voice deep, hollow, ringing with the accents of scorn, he should 
have spoken to his enemies words like these : 

" Look ! Pitiful creatures of an hour, how your poisoned arrows fall 
harmless from this bosom, like water from the rock ! Tilings of an hour, 
creatures of falsehood, who ' trafficked to be bought,' while I served my 
country in hunger and blood and cold, I hurl my defiance to your very 
hearts ! I will yet live down your persecution. In the name of Washing- 
ton and the Revolution, I swear it ! I will yet write my name there — on 
the zenith of my country's fame, — there, where the vulture beak of slander 
the hyena fang of malice, cannot taint nor touch it !" 

But he failed to do this. Unlike Jackson, who covered with the glory of New 
Orleans, rested patiently for thirty years, under the odium of an unjust fine, 
Arnold did not possess the power — to live down persecution. He was 
lost. 

In order to understand the scene of his reprimand in all its details, we 
must wander back through the shadows of seventy years. 



/ 



194 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

That (inc old mansion of Morristown rises before us, in the calm light of 
a winter's day. There is snow upon the jjround, but it i$ frozen, until it 
resembles an immense mirror, whicli Hashes baek to the sky the light of 
the sun. Yonder we behold the mansion, standing on a gentle eminenee. 
Those poplars before the door, or rather beside the fence at llie fool of the 
elevation, are slrijiped of their foliago. The elm yonder, bared of its green 
leaves, shines wilii a thousand limbs of ice and snow. All is cold, serene, 
desolate. 

We enter this mansion. Without pausing to survey its massive front, or 
steep roof or projecting eves, we ascend the range of steps, give the word 
to the sentinels, and pass beneath these pillars which guard the hall door. 

Step gently along this hall — nter with uncovered brow, into this large 
room, where the light of a cheerfid hickory tire glowing upon the hearth, 
mingles with the winter-sunshine, softened as it is by the thick curtains 
along yonder windows. 

Gaze with reverence, for great men arc gathered here. Do not let your 
eye wander to those antique chairs, fashioned of walnut, and carved into 
various fantastic forms, nor to the heavy mouldings of the mantle-piece, nor 
to tlie oval mirror encircled by a wreath of gold llowers. 

But by the hearty glow of the hearlhside llaine, gaze I beseech, upon 
this company of heroes, who dressed in blue and buff stand aide by side, 
leaving an open space before the lire. 

A large table is there, on whose green cloth, are laid various papers, 
burdened with seals, and traced with cclcbralcd signatures. In the midst, 
you behold a sword resting in its sheath, its handle carved in the shape of 
an eagle's beak. That sword has seen brave days in the Wilderness and 
at Quebec. 

Three tigures arrest your attention. 

Neither the knightly visage of Wayne, nor the open countenance of the 
Boy-Oeneral, La Fayette, nor the blulf hearty good-humor of Knox, com- 
mand your gaze. They are all there. There too, Cadwallader the bosom 
friend of Washington, and Greene so calmly sagacious, and all the heroes 
of that time of trial. Yet it is not upon these you gaze, though their faces 
are all darkened by an expression of sincere sorrow. 

It is upon those three figures near the lire that you look, and hush each 
whisper as you gaze. 

Tiie first standing with his face to the light, his form rising above the 
others, superior to them all in calm majesty of look and bearing. The 
sunshine streaming through the closed curtains reveals that face, which a 
cTown could not adorn, nor the title of King ennoble. It is the face of 
Washington, revealing in every calm, fixed outline, a heart too high for the 
empty bauble of a crown, a soul too pure for the anointed disgrace of Royal 
Power. He is very calm, but still you can trace upon his countenance a 
look of deep, aye, poignant regret. 



I 



THE DISGRACE OF ARNOLD. ](|j| 

Ilis eye is fixed upon the liirure opposite. 

Staiuliug with his back to tiie window, a man of some thirty-nine years, 
vigorous in eacli muscular limb, majestic in his breadth of chest, and in the 
erect bearing of his neck and head, rests one hand upon the table and gazes 
upon Washington with a setded look. His brow is bathed in the light of 
the hearth. Do you see the red glare that llashcs over each rigid feature ? 
Does it not impart to that bold brow and firm lips and massive chin, an ex- 
pression almost — supernatural ? 

As he stands there, you see liim move one foot uneasily. The limb 
broken once at Quebec, shattered once at Saratoga pains him. That of 
course, is Arnold. 

You hear tiie words of tlio Reprimand pass from the lips of Washington. 
You listen with painfid intensity. Not a whisper in this tiironged room, 
scarcely a breath ! You hear the (lame crackle, and the crumbling wood 
fall ill hot coals along the hearth. 

Arnold hears it, all — every word of that solemn Reprimand. 

Does his cheek blench? His eye change its fixed glance? His lip 
quiver? No ! As those words fall from the lips of Washington, he merely 
suffers his head to droop slowly downward, until his eyes seem glaring 
upward, from compressrd brows. But the light of those eyes is strange, 
yes, — vivid, deadly. 

— Meanwhile, looking between Washington and Arnold, do you see that 
figure, resting one arm upon the mantel-piece, while his face is turned away, 
and his eyes seem eamesdy iicrusing the hot coals of the fire ? That is a 
very singular face, willi parchment skin, and cold stony eyes, and thin, 
pinched lips. The form — liy no means commanding, or peculiar, either for 
height or dignity — is attired in the glorious blue and buff" uniform. Who 
is this person ? 

I'ehold that glance of Arnold, shooting its scorn from the woven eye- 
brows, and answer the question, every heart for itself. That glance surveys 
the figure near the fire, and pours a volume of derision in a single look. 
Who is this gendemen? Ask the Secret records of the Revolution, and 
ask quickly, for the day comes, when they will be secret no longer. 

At last this scene — which saddens you, without your knowing why — is 
over. The reprimand is spoken. Arnold raises his head, surveys the whole 
company, first, Washington, with a look of deep respect, then the \\'arrior 
faces of his brodieis in arms, and last of all, that figure by the fireside. 

0, tlic widiering scorn of that momentary gaze ! 

The (lame light falls upon Arnold's brow, and reveals him, very calm, 
somewhat pale, but utterly Resolved. 

So, do I imagine the scene of the Reprimand. So, taking for 

granted, that his enemies, who had hunted him for thirteen months, were 
present at the scene of his disgrace — do I, in my own mind, delineate this 
picture of the Past. — 



196 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 



XII.— ARNOLD AT LANDSDOWNE. 



AoED persons, survivors of the Revolution, have told me singular and im- 
pressive stories of Arnold's appearance and demeanor, while in Philadelphia, 
after this trial. 

He wandered from place to place, with an even and steady gait, neither 
looking to one side nor to the other, scarcely even speaking to any one, 
either in courtesy or in anger, but preserving a settled calm of look and 
manner. 

And when the Mob stoned him, he never looked back, but patiently re- 
ceived their missiles in his face, and on his wounded limb. He had grown 
palienl. 

They tell me, that his features, swarthy and battle-worn, lost every trace 
of vivacity : they were rigidly tixed ; the lips compressed, the brow calm 
and unfrowning, w-ore an expression that no one could read, wiiile his eyes 
had a wihlness in their gleam, a fire in their glance, tliat told somewhat of 
the supernatural struggle at work within him, the Battle between Arnold's 
Revenge and .Vrnold's Pride. 

Who shall tell the horrors of that mental combat '. 

At this time, he brings to mind the Hebrew Giant, Sampson. Yes, Ar- 
nold imagined tliat his pursuers had put out the eyes of his honor, and 
shorn oil' the locks of his strength. He fancied himself brought Ibrlh before 
all America, to make sport for the tricksters and trimmers, in Camp and 
Congress — the cowardly Philistines of that heroic lime. 

His fall had been determined with himself, but he also, resolved that the 
ruins which were to crush him should neither be small nor insignificant. 
He was to fall, but he would drag down the temple with him. 

The Ruin should be great and everlasting. He would carve out for him- 
self, a monument of eternal infamy, from the rock of his patriot greatness. 

Look yonder, my friends, into the retirement of Arnold's home. 

Not the home in the city, amid the crowded haunts of life, but this man- 
sion, rising from the summit of a hill, that slopes gently away for a mile, 
until its grassy breast melts into the embrace of the Schuylkill. 

It is almost a Palace, this beautiful place of Landsdowxe, which once 
occupied by the Penn family, is now the retreat of Benedict Arnold. Here, 
amid tiicse beautiful woods, he hides his sorrow. Here, along these grav- 
elled walks, beneath the shade of overhanging trees, he paces all day long. 
Sometimes he gazes on the distant rocks of Laurel Hill. Sometimes he 
strays by the Schuylkill, and its clear waters mirror his face, lowering with 
fearful passions. At limes, secluding himself in these silent chambers, he 
utters certain words in a low voice. 

— Fancy the lion of the forest, captured, tied, his limbs, severed one by 
one, and you have the case of Benedict Arnold. — 



ARNOLD AT LANDSDOWNE. 197 

This proud mansion, once rung witii tlie clamor of a Tliree day's festival. 
It was when Arnold, recently appointed General in command of Piiiladel- 
phia, received the French Minister, Monsieur Gerard. For three days, 
liveries, uniforms, gold, jewels and laces, fluttered and shone, over the wide 
sweep of this beautiful lawn. The wine ran, day and night, free as the 
Schuylkill's waves. The mansion, luxuriously furnished, displayed in every 
room the gaiety of the French Court, combined with the glitter and show 
of an oriental Divan. Beneath the trees banquets were spread ; on the 
river, boats, shapen like Venetian gondolas, glided sofdy, freighted with a 
precious treasure of voluptuous beauty. 

At night, the wood and the mansion, and the river broke out, all at once 
with a blaze of light. It was like a scene of enchantment. 

And amid all these scenes, one Woman, pre-eminently beautiful, glided 
along, her young form, swelling in every vein, with a sense of life, her eyes 
gleaming passion, pride, fascination. Her long hair waved to her half bared 
bosom. Her small foot, encased in delicate slipper, bounded in the dance 
like a feather blown by a gentle wind, so light, so easy, so undulating. 
Every eye was centred on her form. How often Arnold would stand in the 
shadow, gazing upon her as she went to and fro, and thinking that all this 
treasure of warm loveliness, this world of enticing beauty, was his own ! 
His wife, his newly-married Bride ! 

— But those glorious days were now changed. The guests were gone ; 
long since gone. Gone the honor, the gold, the friends. Then, the cele- 
brated Arnold, surrounded by parasites; now the disgraced Arnold, living 
alone in these shades, in company with his wife. 

It is of that wife and of her influence that I would speak. — Do you see 
that lovely woman, clinging to the breast of the stern-browed warrior ? It 
is the evening hour. Through the window pours llie red flush of sunset, bath- 
ing both forms in rosy light. Those tresses fall over her white shoulders, 
and along the manly arms which gird her to his heart. 

Do you think he loves her ? Look at his eye, blazing from the shadow 
of his brow ; that glance surveys her form, and gathers a softened fire from 
her look. And she rests in his arms, just as you have seen a solitary white 
lily repose on the bosom of a broad green leaf, which the waves urired 
gently to and fro. 

She is indeed a beautiful woman — but listen ? AVhat words are these, 
that she whispers in his ear ? 

Does she tell him how much nobler will be Arnold the Patriot, enshrined 
in the hearts of his countrymen, than Arnold the Courtier, dancing atten- 
dance in the ante-cbamber of King George ? 

Does she — following the example of many an humble country-woman, 
clad not like her, in satins and gold, but in plain liomespun — place in her 
Husband's hand, the patriot's sword ? Do those mild blue eyes, looking 

23 



198 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

up into his storn face, gleam wiili ilie iioly flame of patriotism or with a 
base love for the baubles of a Court ?, 

Let History answer. 

I make no charge against ilio wife of Arnold. May tiie sod lay lightly 
on her beautiful frame, which lias long since mouldered into dust. Peace 
to her ashes — if we invoke her memory, it is only for the sake of the terri- 
ble lesson which it teaches. 

Had she, instead of a King-worsiiipper, a lover of titles and courts and 
shows, been a Hero-woinan, Arnold niiglit have been saved. Hut he loved 
her. She clung to him in his disgrace. When the world frowned, her 
bosom received his burning brow, and pillowed his torn heart. She was 
with him in his loneliness. Was it strange, that her voice whispering to 
him at all hours, should sway his soul with a powcrl'ul, nay, an irrcsistable 
influence ? 

Imagine him neglected by Congress, disgraced in the camp, pelted in the 
streets, striding to his home, his heart beating against his breast, like a lion 
in its cage. There, in his Home, a beautiful girl welcomes him. She, at 
least, is true. She may have married him because he was so renowned, 
because he bore his honors with so proud a grace, but now, she is Home, 
Friend, World to him. 

— That single fact should make the flowers grow more beautifully above 
her grave. — 

She is ambitious. Perchance, when sleeping on his breast, she dreams 
of a royal court, and there, attired in coronet and star, she beholds, — Earl 
Arnold ! Then when she wakes, bending her lips to his ear, she whispers 
her dream, and not only a dream, but lays the plan of — Treason. Is it 
improbable that Arnold was fatally swayed by the words of this bewitching 
wife ? 

Again I repeat, had this wife, instead of a lover of courts and pomps and 
names, been a Hero-Woman, her heart true to the cause of freedom, her 
soul beating warmly for Washington and his cause, there would never have 
been written, on the adamantine column which towers from history — dedi- 
cated to the memory of Infamous Men the name of— Bt:NT.DicT Arnold. 

Let Woman learn this lesson, and get it by heari. 

The injluence. of his icife was one nf the nudn causes of .Inwld's 
treason. 

X terrible lesson, to be remembered and told again, wlicn lliis hand is dust ! 

How did she influence his life ? By forcing herself into the rostrum or 
the pulpit ? By sharing in the debates of the Congress, the broils of the 
i-amp ? No ? These women who write big books and mount high pulpits, 
talking theology and science by the hour, never influence anybody. They 
arc admired for the same reason that the mob rushes to see a Mermaid or 
link from the Sea Serpent's tail. Not on account of the usefulness, but 
merely for the curiosity of the thing : for the sake of the show. 



ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR. 199 

It was in the Home, at the Fireside, that the wife of Amolcl exercised 
her bewitching and fatal power ! 

And, O, let the Woman of our country, unheeding the silly philanthropy 
which would force her into the pulpit, or the rostrum, into the clamor of 
wordy debates, or the broils of political life, remember this great truth : 
Her influence is by the Fireside. Her world is Home. By the light of 
that Fireside, she stands a Queen upon her Throne. From that Throne, 
she can mould man to good or evil — from the Sanctity of her home, she 
can rule the world. 

— Let us now, in one historical picture, condense three important points 
of Arnold's career. — 

XII.— ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR. 

There was a night, when an awful agony was passing in the breast of 
Arnold ; the struggle between Arnold's revenge and Arnold's pride. 

You have all seen that old house, in Second near Walnut street, which 
once the Home of William Penn, once the Palace of Benedict Arnold, is 
now used as a manufactory of Venus De Medicis, and sugar candies. That 
old house, picturesque in ruins, with battlemented walls and deep-gabled 
roofs ? 

One night a gorgeously furnished chamber, in that mansion, was illumi- 
nated by the glare of a bright wood fire. And there, with his back to that 
fire, — there, looking out upon the western sky, gleaming in deep starlight, 
stood Benedict Arnold. One hand was laid upon his breast, which throbbed 
in long deep gasps ; the other held two letters. 

Read the superscription of those letters, by the light of the stars ; one is 
directed to General Washington, the other to Sir Henry Clinton. One an- 
nounces his acceptance of the command of West Point, the other offers to 
sell West Point to the British. 

And now look at that massive face, quivering with revenge, pride and 
patriotism ; look at that dark eye, gleaming with the horror of a lost soul ; 
look at that bared throat with the veins swelling like cords ! 

That is the struggle between Arnold the Patriot, and Arnold the Traitor. 

And there, far back in the room, half hidden among silken curtains, silent 
and thoughtful, sits a lovely woman, her hands clasped, her unbound hair 
showering down over her shoulders, her large blue eyes glaring wildly upon 
the fire ! Well may that bosom heave, that eye glare ! For now the wife 
of Arnold is waiting for the determination of her husband's fate ; now, the 
darkest shadow is passing over the Dial-plate of his destiny. 

While Arnold stands brooding there, while his wife sits trembling by the 
Ave — without, in the ante-chamber, three persons wait for him. 

One is a base-browed man clad in the blue uniform of the Continentals. 



300 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

Turn that unifurin and it is scarlet. That is a British Spy. H^is waiting 
to bear the letter to Sir Henry Clinton. 

That hamlsome cavalier, dressed in the extreme of fashion, with em- 
broidered coat, red heeled shoes and powdered hair, is a nobleman of 
France ; the Ambassador of the French King, the Chevalier De Luzerne. 
He iias come here to listen to the otler of Arnold, who wishes to enter the 
service of the French King. 

The tiiird — look ! A silent and moody red-man of tlie forest ; an Indian 
chief; wrapped up in his blanket, standing there, proud as a king on his 
throne. 

He has come from the wilds of the forest in the far northwest, to hearken 
to the answer of Arnold (the Dkath Eagle, as the Indians call him,) to 
their proposition, by whicii they agree to make him chief of their tribes. 

Now look : the door opens ; the three enter ; Arnold turns and beholds 
them. 

Then occurs a hurried and a deeply-interesting scene. 

While the wife of Arnold sits trembling by the fire, he advances, and 
greets the Chevalier De Luzerne : 

" Look ye," he mutters in quick tones, " Your king can have my sword, 
but mark ! I am in debt ; the juob hoot me in the streets ; my creditors are 
clamorous. I must have money !" 

This bold lone of one used to conimiind, little suits the polite Ambassador. 

" My King never buys soldiers !" he whispers with a sneer, and then 
bowing, politely retires. 

Slung to the quick with this cool insult, Arnold — turning his eyes away 
from the British Spy — salutes the Indian cliief — hark ! They converse in 
the wild, musical Indian tongue. 

" My brothers are willing to own the Death Eagle' as their chief," ex- 
claims the Indian. " Yet are they afraid, tliat he loves the pale faces too 
well " 

"Try my love for the pale faces," — mutters Arnold wiih a look and a 
sneer that makes even the red Indian start. 

The chief resumes : " My brothers who are many — their numbers are as 
the leaves of the forest — my brothers who sharpen their war-hatchets for 
the scalp of the pale-face, will ask the Death Eagle to lead them on the 
towns of the pale-face ; to burn, to kill, till not a single pale-face is left in 
the land." 

" Try me !" was the hoarse response of Arnold, given with knit brows, 
and clenched hands." 

" Then siiall the Death Eagle become the chief of the red men" — said 
the Indian — " But his pale face squaw there ! He must leave her ; she can 
never dwell in the tents of the red men." 

Then it was that Arnold — who had embraced with a gleam of savage de- 



ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR. 201 

light, the proposition, to become the chief of a murderous tribe of wild In- 
dians — felt his heart grow cold ! 

Ah ! bow he loved that wife ! 

Arnold wlio in his mad revenge, was willing to sweep the towns of the 
whites with torch and knife, quailed at the idea of leaving that fair young 
wife. 

" The Death Eagle cannot be your chief!" he said as he turned from the 
Indian. The red man went from the room with a sneer on his dark face, 
for the man who could not sacrifice his wife — the loved one of his heart — 
to that revenge, which was about to stamp his name with eternal scorn. 

' Now take this letter to Sir Henry Clinton !" gasped Arnold, placing 
the fatal letter in the hands of the British Spy. And then Arnold and his 
wife were alone. 

Then that wife — gazing on the noble countenance of her husband, now 
livid as ashes, — gazing in that dark eye, now wild and roiling in its glance, 
— gazing on that white lip, that quivered like a dry leaf — then that wife of 
Arnold trembled as she felt that the dread Rubicon was passed, that Arnold, 
the Patriot, dead, she sat in the presence of Arnold, the Traitor. 

XIV.— THE FALL OF LUCIFER. 

How often in the lower world, does the tragedy of life, walk side by side 
with the Common-place ! 

A dark cavern, where no light shines, save the taper flashing from the 
eyes of hollow skull — a lonely waste where rude granite rocks tossed in 
fantastic forms, deepen the midnight horror of the hour — the crash of battle, 
where ten tiiousand living men in one moment, are crushed into clay — such 
are the scenes which the Romancer chooses for the illustration of his Trage- 
dy, the Historian for his storied page, every line full of breathing interest 
and life. 

But that the development of a horrible tragedy, siiould be enacted amid 
the familiar scenes of Home ? What is more common, what appears more 
natural ? 

That the awful tragedy of Arnold's treason, should find its development 
at a — Breakfast-table ! — Does it not make you laugh ? 

Treason comes to us in history, hooded in a cowl, dagger in hand, the 
dim light of a taper trembling over its pallid skull. But Treason calmly 
sitting down to a quiet breakfast, the pleasant smile upon his face, hiding 
the canker of his heart, the coffee — that fragrant intensifier of the brain — 
smoking like sweet incense, as it imparts its magnetism from the lip to the 
soul — Treason with a wife on one side, a baby laughing on his knee ! 
Does it not seem to mingle the ridiculous with the sublime, or worse, the 
dull Common-place with the Demoniac ? 

And yet, there is nothing under Heaven more terribly true ! Search 



202 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

liislory, ami you will liiul a tliousand instances, where the most terrible 
events— things that your blood congeals but to read — were mingled with ♦ 
the dullest facts of cvery-day life. 

While the head of Mary Queen of Scots, falls bleeding on the sawdust 

of the scaffold, every vein of that white neck, which Kings had deemed it 
Paradise to touch, pouring forth its separate stream of blood, in yonder 
chamber Queen Elizabeth, the sweet Jezebel of ihe English throne, is 
adding another tint to the red paint on her cheek, and breaking her looking 
glass, because it cannot make her beautiful ! 

Napoleon, flying from the field of Waterloo, where he had lost a World, 
pauses in his flight to drink some miserable soup, made by a peasant, in the 
hollow of a battered helmet ! 

General Nash, riding to the bloody surprise of Germantown, from which 
he was to come back a mangled corse, turns to Washington, and gravely 
apologizes for the absence of powder from his hair, cambric rutllcs from 
his wrists ! 

We might multiply our illustrations of the fact, by a thousand other 
instances. 

Yet among them all, that Development of Arnold's Treason, which took 
place at a Breakfast-table, has ever seemed to us most terrible. 

Yonder in Robinson's House, which you behold among the trees, on the 
sublime lieights of tiie Hudson, opposite the clifl"s of West Point, tlie Break- 
fast-party are assembled. 

Tlie blessed sunshine of an autumnal morning, which turns the Hudson's 
waves to molten gold, and lights tlie rugged rocks of West Point with a 
smile of glory, also shines through these windows, and reveals the equip- 
age of the breakfast-table, the faces of the guests. 

Why need I tell you of the antique furniture of that comfortable room, or 
describe the white cloth, the cups of transparent porcelain, or the rumbrously 
carved coflee urn, fashioned of solid silver ? These things are very com- 
mon-place, and yet even the coffee urn becomes somewhat interesting, when 
we remember that its polished silver reflects the bronzed features of a 
Traitor ? 

That traitor sits near the head of the table, his imposing form attired in a 
blue coat, glittering with buttons and epaulettes of gold, a buff vest, ruflles, 
and neckcloth of cambric. That face whose massive features have glowed 
with demoniac passions, is now calm as marble. The hand which has 
grasped the Sword of Quebec and Saratoga, now lifts a porcelain cup. And 
yet looking very closely you may see the hand tremble, the features 
shadowed by a gloom, not the less impressive, because it is almost im- 
perceptible. 

Near the General are seated two young officers, his aids-de-camp, whose 



THE FALL OF LUCIFER. 203 

slender form do not conceal a coward thought. Their eyes wander from 
the form of the General, to the figure by his side. 

That figure, the most beautiful liiing out of Paradise — a young wife, with 
a baby nestling on her bosom ! 

At the head of the table she is seen ; her form now ripened into its per- 
fect bloom, negligently attired in a loose robe, whose careless folds cannot 
hide the whiteness of her neck, or the faultless contour of that half-bared arm. 
And the child that sleeps upon her full bosom, its tiny hands wound 
among the tresses of her golden hair, is very beautiful. The Darkness of 
its Father's Crime, has not yet shadowed its cherub face. 

Arnold is silent. Ever and again from the shadows of his deep drawn 
brows, he gazes upon her, his wife ! Upon the burden of her breast, that 
smiling child. , 

How much has he risked for ihcm ! 

Her eye of deep melting blue, first trembles over the face of the infant, 
and then surveys her husband's visage. O, the fearful anxiety of that mo- 
mentary gaze ! Does she fear for the future of her babe ? Shall he be the 
heir of Arnold the Earl ? Does she the child of wealth and luxury, lapped from 
her birth in soft attire, for a moment fancy that Arnold himself, was once a 
friendless babe, pressed to the agonized bosom of a poor and pious woman ? 
— Ere we listen to the conversation of the Breakfast-table, let as approach 
these windows, and behold the scene without. 

Not upon the beautiful river, nor the far extending mountains, will we 
gaze. No ! There are certain sights which at once strike our eye. 
A warrior's horse stands saddled by the door. 

Yonder far down the river, the British Flag streams from the British 
Ship, Vulture. To the north-west, we behold the rocks and clilVs of West 
Point. 

Let us traverse this northern road, until having passed many a quiet nook 
we stand upon the point, where a narrow patli descends to the river. 

Froi7i the green trees, a brilliant cavalcade bursts into view. Yonder 
rock arises from the red earth of the road, overshadowed by a clump of 
chesnut trees. A (jeneral and his retinue mounted on gallant steeds come 
swifdy on, their uniforms glittering, their plumes waving in the light. 

It is Washington, attended by La Fayette and Knox, witli the other 
heroes of his band. In this gallant company, need you ask which is the 
form of the American Chief? 

He rides at the head of his Generals, his chivalric face glowing with the 
freshness of the morning air. By his side a slender youth with a high fore- 
head and red hair — La Fayette ! Then a bind" General, with somewhat 
corpulent form and round good-humored face — (Jeneral Knox. And on the 
right hand of Washington, mounted on a splendid black horse, wliose dark 
sides are whitened by snowy flakes of foam, rides a young man, not re- 
markable for heighth or majesty of figure, but his bold high forehead awes, 



204 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

Iiis deep-set eyes, flashing with genius, win and enchain you. It is young 
Alexander Hamilton. 

.\s we look at this gallant cavalcade, so gloriously bursting into view 
from tlic shadows of these green trees, let us listen to La Fayette, who 
gently lays his hand on the arm of Washington. 

— " General, you are taking the wrong way," he says, in iiis broken accent 
— " That path leads us to the river. This is the road to Robinson's 
House. You know we are engaged to breakfast at General Arnold's head- 
quarters ?" 

A cheerful smile overspread Washington's face — 

" Ah, I see how it is !" he said, allcrnately surveying I.a PSyelle and 
Hamilton — " You young men, ha, lia ! arc all in love with Mrs. Arnold, and 
wish to get where she is, as soon as possible. You may go and take 
breakfast witli hor, and tell licr not to wait for me. I must ride down and 
examine the redoubts on tliis side of the river, and will be there in a short 
time !" 

The officers however, refuse to take advantage of their General's kind 
permission. Two aids-de-camp are sent forward to announce Washington's 
return from Hartford, where he had been absent for some days, on a visit 
to Count De Uochambeau. — In the meantime, the Chief and his retinue 
disappear in the shadows of the narrow path leading to the river. 



The aids de-camp arrive, announce the return of Washington, and take 
their seats beside Mrs. Arnold, at the breakfast-table. 

" Tlie General is well '" asked tlr.U beautiful woman, with a smile that 
revealed the ivory whiteness of her teeth. 

" Never in better spirits in his life. Our visit to Hartford, was a re- 
markably pleasant one — By the bye. General," — turning abrupllv to Arnold 
— " What think you of the rumor now alloal, in reference to Wc.^t Point?" 

The porcelain cup, about to touch Arnold's lip, was suddenly stopped in 
its progress. As the sunlight pours in uncertain gleams over his forehead, 
you can see a strange cloom overshadow his face. 

" Rumor '. West Point ?" he echoed in his deep voice. 

" Yes — " hesitated the aid-de-camp — " On our way home, we heard 
something of an intended attack on West Point, by Sir Henry Clinton — " 

Tlie smile liiat came over .\rnold"s face, was remembered for many a 
day, by those who saw it. 

" Pshaw ! What nonsense ! These lloaiing rumors arc utterly ridicu- 
lous ! Sir Henry Clinton meditate an attack on West Point ? He may be 
weak, or crazy, but not altogetlier so mad as that !" 

The General sipped his coll'ee, and the conversation took anoliicr turn. 

The latest fashion of a lady's dress — whether the ponderous head-gear 
of that time, would be succeeded by a plainer style — the amusements of 



THK FALL OF LUCIFER. 205 

the British in New York, their balls, banquets and gala days — such were 
the subjects of conversation. 

Never hail the wile of Arnold appeared so beautiful. Her eyes beaming 
in liquid iif^ht, lier white hand and arm moving in graceful gesture, her hair 
now lloalinfT gently over her cheek, now waving back in all its glossy love- 
liness, from her stainless neck her bosom heaving softly beneath its beloved 
burden, that peerless woman gave utterance to all the treasures of her mu- 
sical voice, her bold and vivacious intellect. 

Arnold was silent all the while. 

Suddenly the sound of horses' hoofs — the door flung rudely open — a 
soldier appears, covered from head to foot with dust and mud, and holding 
a letter in his hand. 

" Whence come you ?" said Arnold, quietly sipping his cofTee, while his 
eye assumed a deeper light, and llie muscles of his face suddenly contracted, 
— " From whom is that letter ?" 

" I came from North Castle — that letter 's from Colonel Jamison." — The 
Messenger sank heavily in a chair, as though tired almost to death. 

Arnold took the letter, broke the seal, and calmly read it. Calmly, al- 
though every word was fire, although the truth which it contained, was 
like a voice from the grave, denouncing eternal woe upon his head. 

You can see the wife centre her anxious gaze upon his face. Still he is 
calm. There is one deep respiration heaving his liroad chest, beneath his 
General's uniform, one dark shadow upon his face. — as terrible as it is 
brief — and then, arising with composed dignity, he announces, that sudden 
intelligence required his immediate attendance at West Point. 

" Tell General Washington when he arrives, that I am unexpectedly 
called to West Point, but will return very soon." 

He left the room. 

In an instant a servant in livery entered, and whispered in Mrs. Arnold's 
ear — "The General desires to see you, in your chamber." 

She rose, with her babe upon her bosom, she slowly passed from the 
room. Slowly, for her knees bent beneath her, and the heart within her 
breast contracted, as though crushed by a vice. Now on the wide stairway, 
she toils towards her chamber, her face glowing no longer with roses, but 
pale as death, her fingers convulsively clutching her child. 

O, how that simple message thrills her blood ! " The General desires 
to see you, in your chamber !" 

She stands before the door, afraid to enter. She hears her husband pace 
the room with heavy strides. At last gathering courage, she enters. 

Arnold stands by the window, with the morning light upon his brow. 
From a face, darkened by all the passions of a fiend, two burning eyes, 
deep set, beneath overhanging brows, glare in her face. 

She totters towards him. 

For a moment he gazes upon her in silence. 

24 



306 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

She (Iocs not l)re:iilic a word, bill trembling to liini, as thougli unconscious 
of the ai-lioii, lifts lier l)alii' bfforc bis I'jos. 

" Wift! — " he cxrlaiiniHl, in ii voice that was torn from his very liearl — 
" All is lost !" 

lie iliiiii; bis manly arms about her form — one pressure of his bosom, 
one kiss upon licr lips — be seizes the babe, kisses it with wilil frenzy, llings 
it upon the bed, and rushes from the room. 

Then the wife of Arnold spread forth her arms, as tiuiugh she stood on 
the verge of an awful abyss, and with iier eyes swimming in wild light, fell 
heavily to the floor. 

She laid there, motionless as death ; the last fierce pulsation which 
swelled from her heart, had burst the fastening of her robe, and her white 
bosom gleamed like eolil marble, in the morning light. 

Arnolil Inuries down the stairs, passes through the drawing room, mounts 
the saddled horse at the door, and dashes toward the river. 

Awaking from Iier swoon, after the lapse of many minutes, the wife 
arises, seeks her babe again. Slill it sleeps ! What knows it, the sinless 
child, of the fearful Tragedy of that hour .' The Mother passes her hand 
over her brow, now hot as molten lead ; she endeavors to reeal the memory 
of tliat scene ! All is dim, confused, dark, !Sbc api)roaehes the window. 
Far down tlie river, the IJritish Flag floating from the Vulture, waves in 
llie light. 

There is a barge upon the waters, propelled by the steady arms of six 
oarsmen. How beautifully it glides along, now in the shadow of the moun- 
tains, now over the sunshiny waves ! In the stern stands a flgure, holding 
a white flag above his head. Yes, as the boat moves toward the British 
ship, the white flag defends it from the lire of American canncm, at Ver- 
planek's point. As you look the barge glides on, it passes the point, it 
nears the Vulture, while the ripples break around its prow. 

Did the eye of the wife once wander from that erect figure in the stern ? 

Ah, far over the waters, she gazes on that ligiire ; she cannot distinguish 
the features of that distant lace, but her heart tells her that it is — Arnold ! 

— In the history of ages, I know no picture so full of interest, as this — 

The Wife of .\rnold, gazing from the window of her home, upon the 
barge, which bears her Husband to the shelter of the Uritish flag ! 



It was now ten o'clock, on the morning of the '.Jalh of September, 1780. 

Soon Washington approached Robinson's house, and sat down with 
Hamilton and I.a Fayette, to the Breakfast table. He was told that Arnold 
had been called suddenly to West Point. After a hurried breakfast, he 
resolved to cross the river, and meet his (Jeneral at the fortress. Afler 
this interview it was his purpose to return to dinner. Leaving Hamilton 
at tl\e house, he hastened to the river. 



THE FALL Ol'' LUCIFER. 807 

In a few moments the baigc lipplod gently over the w;ivcs. Washington 
gazcJ upon the snhUme clill's all around him, upon the smooth oxjianse of 
water, which rested like a mirror, in its mountain frame, and then gaily 
exclaimed : 

" I am glad that fiencral Arnold has prcccd(!il us. lie will receive us 
with a salute. 'J'lic roar ol' cannon is always delightful, hut never so grand 
as whcii it is re-echoed among the gorges of these mountains." 

The hoal glided on toward the opposite shore. No sound of cannon 
awoke the sihniiu! of the hills. I)oul)tl(\s, Arnold was |irc|iariiig some plea- 
sant surprise. Nearer and nearer to the hcach glided the harge. SliU no 
salute. 

" What !" exclaimed Washington — " Do tliey not intend to salute us ?" 

As the harge graled on the yellow sand, an olllccr in the C'ojitinenta! 
uniform, was seen on the rocks above : 

lie was not prepared for the reception of such visitors, and hoped that he 
would he excused for any apparent neglect, in not having ])lacccl the garrison 
in j)roper condition for a mililary inspection and review. 

"What? Is Arnold not here?" exclaimed Washington, as he leaped 
upon the beach. 

" lie has not been here within two days, nor have I heard from him 
within that time !" replied the olhcer. 

Washington uttered an exclamation of surprise, and then for a moment 
stood wrapped in thought, the sheath of his sword sinking in the sand as he 
uncon.s(Moiisly pressed his hand ujion the hilt. 

Did the possibility of u 'i'reason, so dark in ils details, so tremendous in 
its general outline, burst upon him, in that moment of thought? 

Soon he took his way up the rocks, and followed by his ofTiccrs, devoted 
some three hours to an examination of the works of West I'oint. 

It was near 4 o'clock in the afternoon, when he returned to Robinson's 
house. 

As the company luirsued the path lc:ading from the river to the house, 
an oflicer appeared, his countenance stamjied with deep anxiety, his step 
([uickened iiito irregular footsteps. There was an unimaginable horror 
written on his face. 

That oflicer was Alexander Hamilton. 

As Washington paused in the roadside, he aiiproached and whispered a 
few words, inaudible to the rest of the party. 

Neither La Fayette or Knox heard these words, but ihey saw that ex- 
j)ression of horror rellectcd from Hamilton's visage to the face of Washing- 
ton, and felt their hearts impressed with a strange awe. As a dim, vague 
forboding thrilled from heart to heart, the party approached the house. 

Washington beckons La Fayette and Knox to his side : 

" These letters and jiajjcrs, despatched to me two days since, by Colonel 
Jamison of North Castle reveal a strange truth, gentlemen. — We journeyed 



308 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

to Hartford by the lower road, but returned by the upper. Therefore, tlie 
messenger lias been chasing us for two days, and the information has not 
reached lue until this morning. — The truth gentlemen, is plain — General 
Arnold is a Traitor. Adjutant General Andre — of tiie British army — a 
—SPY !" 

La Fayette sank into a chair, as though the blood had forsaken his heart. 
Knox uttered an involuntary oath. 

Then the ngony which was siU^ntly working its way througli the soul 
of Washington — leaving his face calm as marble — manifested itself in these 
words : 

" Whom," he whispered, quietly folding the papers, — " Whom can we 

TRUST NOW ?" 

Hamilton immediately siaried, on the fleetest horse, for Verplanck's, 
point his intention being to intercept the Traitor. He returned in the course 
of an hour, not with the Traitor, but with a letter headed " His Majesty's 
Ship, Vulture, Sept. 25, 1780," directed to Washington, and signed" Bene- 
dict Arnold." 

Meanwhile a strange, aye, we may well say it, a terrible interview took 
place at Robinson's house. 

The actors — Washington and the wife of Arnold. 

The General ascended the stairs leading to her chamber. He was met 
at the threshhold by a strange apparition. A beautiful woman, with lier 
dishevelled hair floating over her bared bosom, her dress llovving round her 
form in disordered folds, her white arms convulsively clutching her fright- 
ened babe. 

The tears streamed down her cheeks. 

" Do not harm my child !" she said, in a voice that brought tears to the 
eyes of Washington — " He has done no wrong ! The father may be guilty, 
but the child is innocent! O, I beseech you, wreak your vengeance on me, 
but do not harm my babe !' * 

" Madam, there is no one that dares lay the finger of harm, on yourself 
or your child !" replied Washington. 

You can see this lovely woman turn ; she places the babe upon the bed ; 
she confronts Washington with heaving breast and flashing eyes : 

" Murderer !" she cried, " Do not advance ! You shall not touch the 
babe ! I know you — know your plot to tear that child from a Mother's 
breast, but 1 defy you !" 

Strange words these, but a glance convinced Washington, that the wife 
of Arnold stood before him, not calm and collected, but with the light of 
madness glaring from her blue eyes. 

She stood erect, regarding him with that blazing eye, that defiant look. 

" O, shame !" she cried, curling her proud lip in scorn — " A warrior like 
you, to harm an innocent babe ! Wreak your vengeance on me. I am 
ready to bear it all. Cut the child — what has he ever done ?" 



THE PULIP-POPLAR. 209 

Her voice softened as she spoke these last words : she bent forward with 
a look of beseeching eloquence. 

" On my word, I will protect you and your babe !" said Washington, 
and his voice grew tremulous witii emotion. 

For a moment, she stood before him calm and beautiful, even with her 
disordered robes and loosened tresses, but that moment gone, the light of 
madness blazed again from her eyes. 

" Murderer !" she exclaimed, again, and grasped his arm, with a clutch 
like the lasl efl'ort of the dying ; but as she spoke, her face grew paler, her 
bosom ceased to beat; she dashed the thickly clustered tresses from lier 
face, and fell to the floor. 

The only signs of life which she exhibited, were a tremulous motion of 
the fingers, a slight quivering of the nether lip. Her eyes wide open, glared 
in the face of Washington. Then, from those lips, whose beauty had been 
sung by poets, celebrated by warriors, pressed by the Traitor, started a 
while foam, spotted with drops of blood. 

And the babe upon the bed, with its face baptized in the light of the set- 
ting sun, smiled playfully as it clapped its tiny hands and tried to grasp the 
fleeting beams. 

Washington stood beside the unconscious woman : his face was con- 
vulsed with feeling. The tears started from his eyes. 

" May God help you, and protect your babe !" he said, and hurried from 
the room. 

What mean these strange scenes, occurring on this 25th of Sept., 1780 ? 
What were the contents of the letter which Arnold received at the Breakfast 
table ? Can you tell what Revelations were those comprised in the letters 
and papers which Washington perused, on the afternoon of this interesting 
day ? 

Who was .lohn Andre ? 

Was the Wife of Arnold a Partner in the work of Treason ? 

The first question must be answered by another picture, painted on the 
shadows of the Past. 

Ere we survey this picture, let us glance for a moment, at the last scene 
of that fatal day. 

While the Wife lay cold and senseless, there, in the chamber of her des- 
olated home, the State Room of the Vulture presented a scene of some 
interest. 

The British ship was gliding over the Hudson, its dishonored flag tinted 
by tlie last beam of the setting sun. On the soft cushions of the State 
room sofa, was seated ^ man, with his throat bared, his brow darkened, 
every line of his face distorted by passion. His eyes were fixed upon an 
object, which rested on the Turkish carpet at his l"ect. 

That man, the Hero of the Wilderness, whose glory liad burst upon his 



210 • BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

country, wiili ihe bcwildDring splendor of the Aurora, wliich flushes thr 
northern sky with dies of matchless beauty — Benedict Arnold. 

That object was an unsheathed sword — the sword of Quebec and Sar- 
atoga. 

XV— THE TULIP-POrLAR; 
OR 
TIIF. I'OOR MEN HEROES OF THE REVOLUTION'. 

O.VE line morning in the fall of 1780, seven men went out by the roadside 
to watch for robbers ! 

It was two days before the scene of the Breakfast table. 

Four of these men concealed themselves in tiic buslies on the summit of a 
liigh hill. 

Three of their comrades sat down under a Inrixo poplar tree — some hun- 
dred yards to the northward — for a ])lcasant game at cards. 

These are plain sentences, telling simple facts, yet on these simple facts 
liingcd the destiny of George Washington, the Continental Army, and llie 
cause of freedom. 

Let us go yonder into the hollow, where tHe highway, descending a hill, 
crosses a gentle brook, ascends the opposite hill, and is lost to view among 
the trees to tlie south. On either side of the road, darkens the foliage of 
the forest trees, scarcely tinged by the breath of autumn. 

This gentle brook, tossing and murmuring on its way, is surmounted by 
a bridge of r^de pine planks, defended on either side by a slender railing. 

A dark-brown horse stands champing the bit and tossing his black mane 
in the centre of tiie bridi;c, wiiile his dismounted rider bends over yonder 
railing, and gazes down into the brooklet with a vacant stare. 

Let us look well upon that traveller. The manly form, enveloped in a 
blue overcoat, tiie young brow, surmounted by a tanner's round hat, the 
undercoat of a rich scarlet hue, with gold buttons and tinselled trinkets, the 
well polished boots, all display the mingled costume of a yeoman and a 
soldier. 

His rich brown hair tosses aside from liis brow : his dark hazel eye 
grows glassy with thought : his cheek is white and red by turns. Now his 
lip is compressed, and now it quivers. Look ! He no longer leans upon 
the railing, lio longer gazes down into the dark waters, but pacing hurriedly 
up and down the rustic bridge, displaying tlie elegance of iiis form, the 
beauty of his manly lace, to the light of day. 

The sun is seen by intervals througli the tops of these eastern trees; die 
song of birds is in tiie woods ; the air comes freighted with the rich odours 
of fall. It is a beautifid morning. Light, feathery clouds floating overhead, 
only serve to relieve the clear blue of the autumnal sky. 

It is a beautiful morning, but the young traveller feels not the breeze, 
cares not for the joyous beam. Nor do those wreaths of autumnal mist, 



THE TULIP-POPLAR. 211 

hanginn; in graceful festoons among the tall forest trees, arrest llie glance of 
his liazel eye. 

He paces along the bridge. Now he lays his hand upon the mane of his 
iiorse ; now hastily buttons his overcoat, as if to conceal the undercoat of 
claret, wiih its handsome gold buttons ; and at last, pausing in the centre 
of the bridge, he clasps his hands, and gazes absently upon the rough planks. 

Well may that man that paces the bridge, thus clasping iiis hands, thus 
stand like marble, witii his dark hazel eyes glassy with thought. 

For he is a (i ambler. 

He has matched his life against a glittering boon — the sword of a General. 
The game he plays is — Treason — if he wins, an army is betrayed, a Gene- 
ral captured, a Continent lost. If he loses, he dies on the gallows, with 
ihe ropo about his neck, and the bandage over his eyes. 

Was he not a bold Gambler? 

He lias been far into tlie enemy's country. Over the river, up the rocks, 
and into the secret chamber. With the Tkaitor he has planned the Trea- 
son. Now he is on his way home again to the city, where his General 
awaits him, trembling with suspense. 

Is that not a handsome boot on his right foot? I do not allude so much 
to llie heavy tops, nor to the polished surface, but to the glove-like nicely 
with wliich it envelopes the manly leg. That boot contains the fortress of 
West I'oint, the liberty of George Wasliington, tlie safety of the Continental 
Army ! An important boot, you will admit, and well adapted to create 
lever in his mind who wears it. 

One question is there before the mind of that young traveller: Can he 
pass immohsled to the city of New York? 

He has come far on liis journey ; he has passed through perils that 
chilled his blood, and now thirty miles alone remain. But thirty miles of 
ueutral ground, ravaged by robbers from both armies, who plunder the 
American because he is not a Briton, and rob the Briton because he is not 
an American. 

This is a tlu-illing qneslion. 

Those papers in his boot, once transferred to Sir Henry Clinton, this 
young gentleman will be rewarded witii a General's commission. 

As tills brilliant thought passes over his mind, there comes another 
lliought, sad, sweet, tender. 

The little sitting room yonder in England, where his fair-haired sister, 
and his sister with the flowing dark tresses, are seated by the mother's 
knee, talking of him, their absent brother ! O, it is sweet to dream by 
uiglit, but sweeter far, to dream by day, with the eyes wide open. A beau- 
tiful dream ! That old familiar room, with oaken wainscot and antique 
furniture ; -liie mother, with her placid face, venerable with grey hair ; tlie 
fair girls now i)hishing and ripening into women ! 

He will return home ; yes, they shall hear his manly step. They shall 



212 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

look from the door, and instead of the untitled Cadet, behold the renowned 
General. The ihoiiiihi fires his soul. 

He gives his fears lo the wind. For lie is a brave man, but now he is 
afraid, for he is doing a coward's work, and feels a coward's pangs. 

He sprinirs on his horse, and with Washington, West Point, and the Con- 
tinental Army in his ri;,'ht boot, he passes on iiis way. 

Let us go up yonder hill before him. Wiiat is this we see ? 

'J hree men sealed beneath a tree playing cards ! Alone and inagniiicent 
stands that Tulip-Poplar, its broad limbs extending at least forty feet from 
the trunk, ami that trunk six feet in diameter. Sucii a tree you may not 
see in a lil'e-tinie. A trunk, like the ooluinn of some Uruid Temple, hewn 
of granite rock, a shade like the shelter of some colossal war-tent. How the 
broad green leaves toss to and fro to the impulse of the breeze ! 

It stands somewliat aside from the road, separated from the trees of 
yonder wood. 

While these men pass the cards and fill tiic air with the song and laugh, 
let us draw near. 

That small man, leaning forward, with the smile on his lips, is named 
Williams. He is near Ibrty years of age, as you can see by the intricate 
wrinkles on his face. His costume, a plain farmer's dress, with belt and 
powder horn. Uy his side, reclining on the ground, a man of large frame, 
stalward arms, broad chest, also leans forward, his eyes fixed upon the game. 
He is named Van Wert. His face, dogged and resolute in its expression, 
gives you an idea of his ehareicter. The third, a tall, well-formed man of 
some twenty years, with an intelligent countenance and dark eye, is dressed 
in a faded British uniform. He is at once tiie most intelligent and soldier- 
like man of tlie compaii)-. His name is Paulding. 

Their rilles are laid against the trunk of the tulip-poplar. Here we have 
them, intent upon their game, laughing in careless glee, now and then sing- 
ing a camp song, while the cards move briskly in their fingers. 

All at once the party turned their faces to the north. The sound of 
a horse's hoof struck on their ears. 

" Here comes a stranger !" exclaimed Van Wert, with a marked Dutch 
accent, " A fine, gentleman-like man. Hey, Paulding ? Had not we better 
stop him ?'' 

Paulding sprang to his feet. He beiield our young traveller riding slowly 
toward the tree. In a moment he was in the highway, intently regarding 
tha stranger, whom he surveyed willi a meaning glance. 

As his horse reached the poplar tree, Williams sprang forward and seized 
the reins, while Paulding presented his rifle to the breast of the young man. 

" Stand !" he exclaimed, in a deep, sonorous voice, " Which way ?" 

For a moment the stranger gazed in the face of the soldier, who stood 
before him, clad in a British uniform. \ shade of doubt, inquiry, fear 
passed over his handsome face. 



I 



THE TULIP-POPLAR. 213 

" Gentlemen," said he, in a voice which struck their cars with its tones 
of music, " I iiope you belong to our party V 

" Which party ?" ashed Paulding. 

" The Lower Party !" returned the traveller. 

A smile darted over Paulding's face. 

" So do I," said he, still keeping his rille at the breast of the unknown. 

' I am a British oflicer !" exclaimed the young man, rising proudly in his 
stirrups, as he displayed a gold watch in his extended hand. " 1 trust that 
you will know better than to detain me, when you learn that I am out of 
the coiiniry on particular business." 

The three soldiers started. The athletic Van Wert advanced to the side 
of Williams, and seized the other bridle rein. Paulding smiled grimly. 

" Dismount !" he said, pointing the ride at the very heart of the stranger, 
who gazed from face to face with a look of wonder. 

" My God !" said he, gaily, with a faint laugh, " I suppose I must do 
anything to pass." 

He drew from his breast a paper, which he extended to Paulding. The 
other soldiers look over their comrade's shoulder as he read it aloud : 

Head Quarters, Robinson's Hause, Sept'r 22d, 1780. 
Permit Mr. John Anderson to pass the Guards to the White Plains, or below 
if he chooses. He being on Public Business by my Direction. 

B. Ae.nold, M. Gen. 

" Now," said the bearer of this passport, as he dismounted, " I hope you 
will permit me to pass. You will risk a great deal by detaining me. Gene- 
ral Arnold will not lightly overlook my. detention, I assure you '." 

Paulding, with the paper in his hand, turned to his comrades, who, with 
surprise in their faces, uttered some hurrieif'words, inaudible to the stranger. 

" You see, sir, I'd let you pass," said Paulding, " but there's so many 
bad people about, I'm afeerd you might be one of them. Besides, Mister 
Anderson, how came you, a British officer, in^ossession of this pass from 
an Jlmericun General?" 

For the first time the face of the stranger was clouded. His lip was 
tightly compressed, as though he was collecting all the resources of his 
mind. 

" Why do you wear a British uniform V he exclaimed, pointing to Paul- 
ding's dress. 

" Why you see, the tories and robbers belongin' to your army, would not 
let me live a peaceable life until I enMsled under your king. I staid in New 
York until I could escape, uhich I did one fine day, with this uniform on 
my back. Here I am, on neutral ground, but an American to the backbone !" 

" Come, Mister," exclaimed Wdliams, " You may as well walk into the 
bushes ; we want to sarch you." 

Without a word, the stranger suffered them to lead him under the shade 

25 



214 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

ofj'OiKlor wood. In a inomciit lie stood on a mossy sod, willi a leafy 
canopy overhead. Around him, wilh suspicion, wonder, curiosity, stamped 
on their faces, stood Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert. 

lie was calm, that unknown man ; not a flush was on his face, not a 
frown upon his brow. Yd his hazel eye glanced from face to face wilh a 
loolv of deep an.victy. 

They took the overcoat, the coat of claret hue, glittering with tinsel, the 
nankin and flannel waislcoals, nay, the milled shirt ilsclf, from his form, 
and ypt no evidence of his character in the shape of written or prinled paper 
met their eyes. At last his hoots, liis undcr-;;arui('nls, all save his stock- 
ings, were removed; yet still no paper, no sign of mystery or treason was 
revealed. 

• He stood in that silent recess, wilh all the proud beauty of that form — 
which, in its manliness of chest, grace of limb, elegance of outline, rivalled 
the Apollo of the Sculptor's dream — laid bare to the light. His brown curls, 
tossed to the impulse of the breeze, about his face and brow. His arms 
were folded across his breast, as he gazed in the soldier's faces. 

" Your stockings, if you please," said Paulding, bending down at the 
ofTicer's feet. The slocking of the right foot was drawn, and lo ! three 
carefully folded papers, placed next the sole of the foot, were disclosed. In 
a moment the other stocking, and three papers more. 
The young man shook wilh a sudden tremor. 

One burst of surprise echoed from the soldiers as they opened the papers. 
The stranger had one hope ! They were but rude men; they might not 
be al)le lo read the papers, but that hope was vain, for in a clear, bold voice, 
Paulding gave their fatal secret to the air. 

Artillery orders, showing how the garrison of West Point should be dis- 
posed of in case of an alarm ; an estimate of the force of the fortress ; an 
estimate of the number of men, requisite to man the works; a return of the 
ordnance ; remarks on the strength and weakness of the various works, a 
report of a council of war l#ely at head quarters, concerning the campaign, 
which Washington had sent to Arnold — such were the secrets of these 
papers, all in the undisguised hand writing of Benedict Arnold. 

It is in vain lo picture the dismay which was stamped upon each soldier's 
face, as word by word, they spelled out and guessed out the terrible treach- 
ery, which, to their plain minds, seemed to hang over these letters. 

The young man — now their prisoner — stood silent, but pale as death. 
For a moment all his fortitude seemed lo have forsaken him. 

At last, laying his hands on Paulding's arms, he said, in tremulous tones 

" Take my watch, my horse, my purse — all I have — oidy let me go !" 

This was a terrible temptation for three poor men, who, living in a land 

demoralized by war, where neither property nor life was safe for an hour, 

had never, in all their lives, owned such a fine horse, elegant gold watch, 

or purse of yellow guineas. 



THE TULIP-POPLAR. 215 

F(ir a moment Paulding was silent, his manly face wore a liesilating look. 
" Will yon gif us any ling else .'" said Van Wert, with a strong Dutch 
accent. 

" Yos, I will make each man of you rich for life," repeated the yoyng 
man, his manner growing more urgent, while his face was agitated with 
emotion. — " Lands — dry-goods — money, to enable you to live independent 
of the world — anything you like, only let me go !" 

Poor fellow ! His tones were tremulous. He was only pleading not for 
a free passage, but for life, and a — Generalship. A terribly distinct vision 
of his mother and sisters flashed over his soul. 

" But, Mister," exclaimed Williams, " How are we to know that you'll 
keep your word ?" 

" I will stay here until you go into the city and return !" was the response 
of the prisoner. 

Paulding was yet silent, with a shade of gloom on his brow, while Van 
Wert and Williams looked in one another's face. The prisoner, with atrony 
quivering in every feature, awaited their reply. 

" Dress yourself," muttered Paulding, in a rough voice. 
" Then you consent.you will let me go ?" eagerly exclaimed the diguised 
officer. 

Paukling made no reply. 
Slowly he resumed his apparel. 

He then looked around, as if to read his doom in the faces of these 
rude men. 

For they were rude men. It was an awful time of fear, doubt, murder, 
that era of 1780. No man could trust his neighbor. This thirty miles of 
neutral ground was as much under the control of law as the Desert of Ara- 
bia. These men had felt the hand of British wrong ; they had been robbed, 
ill-treated, trampled under foot by British power. 

Here was a chance to make them all rich men. The young man's words 
were fair. He would remain a prisoner until tjiey had tested his truth, by 
going to New York. They knew that some strange mystery hung about 
liis path ; they guessed that his escape would bring danger to Washington. 
But more than this, they could neither know nor guess. 

Admit, as some have urged, that these men were robbers, who came out 
this fine morning of September, to try their fortune on the highway, and 
the case becomes more difficult. If poor men, they would scarcely refuse 
his offer ; if robbers, they would at once take watch, and horse, and gold, 
and bid him go ! 

For some moments deep silence prevailed. 

" Will you accept my offer, gentlemen ?" 

Paulding turned and faced him. 

" No !" said he, in a voice which chilled the young man's blood ; " If 



218 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

you were to ofTer mr tppi ilioiisatid guineas I could noC — 1 would not, let 
you go !" 

'I'lie prisoner said not :i word, but liis face grew paler. 
• Tliey went slowly lorth from ilic wood, and stood once more beneath the 

Tulip Pojiiar. 

'I'hc youiiii; stranger looked upon his horse, which was to bear him away 
a prisoner, and his heart ihnllcil wilh a pang like death. 

At this moincnt, liirning to the west, he beheld a sight wliieh diilled his 
blood. The Hritish ship Viii.Ti'ui:, — which ho had mis.sed near West 
Point, hv some accident nevi'r yet explained — rode there, upon the calm 
Hudson, within a mile from the spot where ho stood. Escape, safety, 
honor, so near, and yet he was a prisoner. 

Once inhre he tm-ned, once more in piercing tones, with hurried ges- 
tures, he besought them lo take all ; he jiroinised them fortune, only that 
he might depart. 

But still that stern answer : 

" FoK TEN THOUSAND OUINEAS WK WOULD NOT LET VOU 00 !" 

The sun was up in the heavens. The breeze tossed the magnificent 
limbs of the Tulip-Poplar. (Jrouped uiuler its shadow were the captors 
and tlieir juisoner. Here, the manly I'anliling, wiili an expression of pity 
stealing over his face ; there, Williams, his countenance expressing a dull, 
apallieiicr wonder; farther on. Van Wert, bis form raising above his com- 
rades, while his arms were folded across his breast. The cards were lit- 
tered over the grass, but each man grasped his rifle. 

O, silken people, in line robes, who read your perfumed volumes, detail- 
ing the virtues of the rich and great, can you see no virtue under those rude 
waistcoats, no greatness in those peasant faces ? It has been my task again 
and again, to portray the grandeur of a Washington, the chivalry of La- 
fayette, the glorious deeds of Wayne ; but here, in these ball-robber, half- 
Boldier forms, metliinks is found a Skle-demal, that will match the bright- 
est of them all. Honor lo Washington, and LaAiyelte, and Wayne, and 
honor to I'aidding, Williams, and Van Werl, the Pooii Me.\ Heroes op 

THE RrVOLUTION. 

They stood grouped under the Tulip-Poplar; but their prisoner? 

Ho laid h's arms upon his horse's neck, and hid his face on its dark 
mane. 

Long ago the bones of that young traveller crumbled to dust, in a felon's 
grave, beneath a gibbet's foot. 

Long iigo, on a stormy night, the lightnings of God descended upon the 
Tnlip-Poplar, and rent its trunk to the rooUs, and scattered its branches to 
the air. 

And Paulding, Williams, and Van W^crl, are also gone, but their names 



THE TUIJP-rOPLAR. 217 

are remembered forevermorc. Let us look for a iiinnicnt at the cImjs to 
which they belonged, let us take one of tiiese humble men ami iiuinl the 

picture of a Poor Man Hero, 

He crouches beside the truuk of the giant oak, on tiie wihl wood 

fiide. He swe(^|)S the overhanging leaves aside with his brawny hand — the 
light falls suddenly over his swarthy and sunburnt face, over his fur cap, 
with its bucktail plume, over the blue hunting shirt, over his forest mocca- 
sins, and hunlKman's attire. He raises the glittering riile to his eye, that 
keen, grey eye, looking from beneath the bushy eyebrow, and fixed upon 
the distant foeman — he raises his rillc, he alius at the star on the heart — he 
fires. The wood rings with the sound — the Itritisher has taken the mea- 
sure of his grave. 

And thus speeding along from tree to rock, from the fence tft the secure 
ambush of the buckwheat field — speeding along with his stealthy footsteps, 
and his keen eye ever on the watch, the bold rifleman heeds not the battle 
raging in the valley below ; he cares not for the noise, the roar of cannon, 
■ the mechanicid march of the drilled columns ; he cares for naught but his 
own true rille, that hears a death in every ball — that shrieks a death-kiiell 
at every fire. A free man was the old rideman. His home was the wild 
wood, his companions the beasts of the ravine, and the birds of the clilT; 
his friend, true and unfailing, was his rifle, and his joy was to wander 
along the lonely pathway of the wilderness, to track the Indian to his 
camp-fire, the panther to his lair. 

A free man was the old rifleman. At the close of the day's hard cliase, 
what king so happy as he ? He seats himself on the green sward, at the 
foot of the ancient oak, in the depths of the eternal woods, while the setting 
eunbenms fling their lines of gold alhward the mossy carpet, and between 
the quivering leaves of the twilight foliage. 

He rears the booth of forest branches, with its walls and roof of leaves, 
he spreads his couch of buftalo robes, and then gathering the limbs of de- 
cayed trees, he lights his fire, and the rosy gleam flares over the darkening 
woods, a sign of home built in the wilderness. 

The victim of the day's chase, the gallant deer, is then dragged to the fire- 
side, divested of his skin, and anon the savory steak smokes in the blaze, 
and the tree hermit of the woods, the free old backwoodsman, rubs his bony 
hands with glee, and chuckles with all a luintcr's delight. 

Such were the men that thronged the woods and peopled the solitudes 
of this, our glorious land of the New World, in the year of grace, Suvkntv- 
Six, — in the year of freedom — One. To this class belong the captors of 
Andre, who refused a fortune, rather than aid the enemy of Washington. 
Such were the men whom the British were sent to conquer : such were 
the men who knew nothing of pretty uniforms, mechanical drills, or regular 
lines of march, whom the stout red-coats were to annihilate. I 

The huntsman's frock of blue was not very handsome, his rough leggings 



218 BEXEDICT ARNOLD. 

were not quite as pretty as the grenadier's well polished boots, his cap of 
fur was a sliapeless thing altogether, and yet he had two things that some- 
times tiouhleil his enemies not a little — a stirc rijfe and a keen txje. 

Let us be just to tliuir memories. While we honor I'aukling, Williams, 
and Van Wert, let us remember that ton thousand such as these, rest un- 
known, unnamed, beneath the graves of the Past, while the grass grows 
nioro licaiiiiful above, moistened with their blood, the unhonored Poor Men 
Heroes of the Revolution.* 



It now becomes our task to examine the contents of the letter which 
Arnold received at the Breakfast table. 

Andre, when captured, was taken to the nearest military post at North 
Castle, where Colonel Jamison was stationed with a regijuuni of dragoons. 
This brave officer was utterly confounded by the revelations of the papers, 
whieh had been concealed in the boot of the Conspirator. He could not 
imagine, liiat a General so renowned as Arnold was a Traitor. His con- 
fusion may be imagined when it is known, that the letter perused by the 
traitor at the breakfast table, was a hasty note from Jamison, aimouncing the 
capture of a man named Anderson, who " had a passport signed in your 
name and papers of a i-eri/ danp:eroiis tendenri/." 

At tlie same time, he announced that he had sent these dangerous papers 
to Washington. — You have seen the agitation of the American General, 
when afler two day's delay, he received these documents at Robinson's 
House. — The honest blunder of Jamison saved liie Traitor's neck. 

Next comes the question — Was Arnold's wife a Partner in the work of 
Treason ? Again let us question the shadows of the past for an answer. 
Was her fate, in any manner, connected wiih the destiny of Jolin Andre ? 
Let these scenes, which break upon us from the theatre of the Revolution, 
solve the question. 



Note. — There is a strange mystery connected wit!i tliis capture. Like other 
prominent incidents of the lievoliition, it has l>cen described in at least twenty 
ditl'erent ways. 'I'he distiiiixuished liistorian, Sparivs, presents a plain, straightforward 
oceoiint, whicii in its turn is eontradicietl hy a late nriiele in a western paper, 
pnrportint; to be reniiniseenees of a gentlemen named Hudson, who professes to be 
conversant with the I'ncts. fi'oin an actual acquaintance with Paiildmi;;, Williams, 
and Van Wert. Mr. IL stales that I'aiildins; wore a liritish uniform; that Williania 
was despatched with a note to Arnold ; and that the prisoner was taken to Sinj Sing, 
atid front thence to Tappau, where H'aa/iiin^tott arrivi-d in ti ftw miituUs. Sparks, 
the FIRST Historian of our country, makes no mention of iho uniform, and iiy the 
evidence of the three heroes, directly contradicts the other statements. Andre 
was taken to North Castle, while Wafh'ini^ton was absent on a jiiitrnti/ to Ihtrtford, 
Not a word ((»n the trial of Andre.) was said by either Paulding or his comrades, in 
relation to the departure of W'^tUiinns ii-it/i a note to Arnold. 'I'lierc is an evident 
ambi^'uily here, wliich shoulil be rem >ved. Mr. Hudson's statement, plain and decided 
as it is, contradicts the evidence of the men from whom he received it. If correct, 
then they uttered falsehoods on the trial of Andre. — if untrue, they are y't'lly "f 
wilt'ul or involuntary misrepresentation. 'I'he mention of (he British unilorm places 
ft new construction upon the whole all'air, and is. in my opinion, the only satisfactory 
explanation of the conduct of Andre, ever yet published. 



THE KNIGHT OF THE MESCHIANZA. 219 



XVI.— THE KNIGHT OF THE MESCHIANZA. 

Two scenes from the past ; two scenes from the dim shadows of Revo- 
lutionary Romance. One is a scene of Light — the other, of Gloom. 

The first scene took place when the British Army was in Philadelphia; 
and while Benedict Arnold was confined to his room, in the city of New 
Haven, with the wounds of Saratoga. 

The other scene occurred more than two years afterwards, when Benedict 
Arnold was in command at West Point. 

Yonder, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, stands an old house, with the 
marks of decay ahout its roofs, its windows and walls. An old house, with 
scattered tenements and broken commons all around it. Not long ago, 
fallen into utter neglect, it was occupied as a coach-shop ; now it is crowded 
with the young faces, the busy liura of a common school. 

There was a time, when that old house was a lordly palace, with one 
•wide green lawn stretching away from the hall-door for half a mile, away 
to the brink of the broad Delaware. 

There was a night when that house shook to the tread of warriors, and 
the steps of dancers — when every tree along that wide lawn shone with 
lights on every bough. Yes, a night, a banquet was given there by the 
officers of Sir William Howe, in honor of his glorious victory ! Victory ? 
Yes, in honor of the fact that he hadn't been worse beaten, by Mister 
Washington. 

Ah, it was a glorious night. A midnight sky above, and light and glitter 
below. Then gondolas, freighted with beauty, glided over the waters, 
flashing streams of light along the dark waves. Then the gallant ofiicers 
put ofl" their red coats to put on armor and helmet, like knights of old, and 
a gay tournament, with heralds, and plumes, and steeds, and banners, Hashed 
over the wide lawn. 

Let us for a moment look upon this tournament. 

In yonder balcony, on the southern side of the lawn — that balcony, over- 
hung with the blood-red banner, festooned with flowers — is crowded one 
living mass of womanly beauty. Blue eyes and hazel, eyes dark as mid- 
night, or soft and languishing as June, there mingle these glances in one 
blaze of light. There you behold the tend^er forms of girlhood, the mature 
bust of womanhood, there cjowdcd into one view, you see all that is like 
the ruby or the rose on woman's lip, like the summer dawn on her cheek, 
like the deep stars of night in her eye. 

These are the flowers of the aristocracy, assembled in one group of love- 
liness, to grace the Meschianza of Sir William Howe. 

Meschiariza ? That is a strange word, what does it mean ? I cannot 
tell you, but my mind is somewhat impressed with the fancy of its Hindoo 



220 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

origin. Yes, it is possibly derived from some Sancrit word, and signifies, 
to be glad at not being worse beaten, to be exceedingly joyful on limited 
victories, to be thankful that one's neck is safe. That is the only derivation 
I could ever find for Mechianza. 

Below the balcony spreads the scene of the tournament. There, at one 
end, through the trees, you see the palace, flaming like a funeral pyre, wilii 
lights, and yonder, far down the lawn, the broad Delaware glimmers into 
view. 

Hush every whisper; the Tournament is ready to begin. 

From these groups of Knights at cither end of the lists, two cavaliers 
sally forth and confront each other. One in armour of plated gold, mounted 
on a dark steed, with a black plume shadowing his brow. The other, on 
that milk-white steed, is cased from head to foot, in an armour of azure 
steel. A white plume tosses from his brow. 

Now hold your breath, for they come thundering on. On, on, over the 
green lawn, on to each other's Ijreasts, on with the levelled lance. 

There is a pause — they crash together — now there is a moment of doubt 
— but now — look ! How the white scarfs from yon gallery wave like 
snow-flakes on the air. 

The Knight on the dark steed is down ; but the Knight in armo\ir of 
azure steel, mounted on the milk-while steed, rides round tlie lists in 
triumph, with his snowy plume tossing as he goes. 

Oh, this is a glorious show, a grand Tournament, a splendid display of 
lovely women, and oh, for a swelling word from the vocabulary of adjectives 
— a Mcschianza ; and all in honor of Sir William Howe, who is so glad 
that he is not tvorse btuten by Mister Washington. 

Yonder fair girl bending from the gallery, lets fall xi\ion the brow of that 
white-plumed Knight, a chaplet of laurel, woven with lilies and roses. 

His dark hazel eyes upraised catch the smile as it speaks from her lips. 

The Queen of Beauty crowns the Victor of the Tournament. It is a 
lovely picture. Let us look upon a lovelier. 

Yonder, in the deep shadows of the grove, where the lights glare flicker- 
ing and indistinct, over the tufted sward, a knight cased in glittering armour 
kneels at the feet of a lovely girl. 

For she is lovely, even into that towering head-dress that lays back her 
golden hair from her white brow, in a mass of powder and pearls ; slic is 
lovely in that gorgeous dress, trailing in luxurious folds upon the ground, its 
jewels and satin and gold, hiding the matchless outline of her form. Yes, 
she is lovely, for that deep, yet wild and languishing eye, that laughing lip, 
would be more beautiful, were the form girded in a peasant garb, instead of 
being veiled in the royal robes of a Queen. 

And tell me, as that fair girl, extending her hand, half turns her head 
away, the blush ripening over her cheek, while the lover looks up with glad 
and grateful eyes, tell me, is it not as lovely a picture as artist ever drew ? 



THE KNIGHT OF THE MESCHIANZA. 221 

Now change the scene. Let the Tournament pass. Let Sif William 
Howe go home to England. Let the gay Knights of the Blended Roses 
and Burning Lances go to the batde-tield again, there to be beaten by Mad 
Anthony, that Knight of the Iron-Hand ; or George Washington, the Knight 
without Fear and without Reproach. 

Now let us go to West Point. 

In the Southern window of the mansion, opposite that fortress stands a 
beautiful woman, witii her long hair all scattered in disorder about her shoul- 
ders, while her blue eye, glaring witli a look like madness, is tixed on the 
Southern sky. 

In that beautiful woman, you recognize the lovely girl of the Meschianza. 
That woman is now the wife of Benedict Arnold, who fled from West 
Point but a few brief days ago, in the British ship Vulture. Tliat child 
laughing on her bosom, is the child of a Traitor. 

I'es, she has /inked her fate with the destiny of Jirnohl. Yet, still af- 
ter her marriage, she continues her correspondence U'ilh the Knight of the 
JiJcschtanza, who dwells in New York, the favorite of Sir Hinry Clinton. 

In those letters, the first letters of .Arnold to Clinton, signed Gustavus, 
and speaking Treason, were enclosed. Thus, the letters of the Jf'ife, to 
the gallant Knight, ivcre the vehicles of her Husband'' s dishonor. — 

Why does she gaze so earnestly toward the South ? She looks for the 
Knight of the Tournament ! 

There on that piece of table-land, which looks down upon the Hudson, 
where its waters sweep in their broadest flow — at Tappan Zee — there 
under the light of the noon-day sun, a dense crowd is gathered near a small 
stone house ; not a murmur is heard in that crowd ; all is silent as the clay 
cold lips of the dead. 

Ere we look upon the sight which chills the crowd into such deep 
silence, let us go back to the daybreak hour. 

Day was breaking over tlie broad Hudson, over the hills crowned with 
gorgeous autumnal foliage, over yon solitary stone house and along the level 
space, when two figures came hither with spades in their hands. 

They were rough men, embrued in life-long deeds of blood, but as they 
sunk two holes in the sod, with tlie distance of a few feet between, they 
were at first silent ; then a scalding drop of moisture stole from the eyes of 
that rough man, while his comrade cursed him for crying, as his own eye 
was wet with a tear. 

It must have been a dark matter indeed to make men like these, shed tears. 

AVhen tliose holes were dug, then they brought two thick pieces of 
scantling, and placed them in the cavities ; then another piece at the top 
connected these upright timbers ; and last of all, a rope was brought, and 
then behold — the Gallows! 

It was around this gallows as the hour of noon came on, that a dense 

36 



222 BENEDICT AKNOLD. 

crowd gathered. Tliere were l)Uie and gold uniforms, and there the Lrown 
dress of the farmer. That liigli-browed man, whom you see yonder, 
among the crowd of officers, bears the great name, which tlie nation always 
loved to repeat — Alexander Hamilton. 

It is noon — and look ! From yonder stone-house comes a young man, 
in a magnificent scarlet uniform ; a young man, with glossy brown hair and 
a deep hazel eye. 

As he comes through the lane, made by the parting of the crowd, you 
can see that cart moving slowly at his heels ; tiial cart in which crouches a 
grim figure, sitting on a pine bo.x, with crape over its face. 

Does tiiis spectacle interest you ? Then look in that young man's face, 
and behold the Knight of the Tournament. When we bulicld him last, a 
fair lady dropped laurel on his brow, a chaplet of laurel and roses. To- 
day, that grim figure will crown him with a chaplet of death ! 

He draws near the foot of the gallows. For a moment, he stands, roll- 
ing over a little stone with his foot, as he tries to smother that choking sen- 
sation in his throat. 

There is silence in that crowd. 

Look ! the cart waits for him under the dangling rope — that grim figure 
lays tlio pine coflin upon the ground — and then binds his arms lightly with 
a handkerchief. 

The silence is deeper. 

Now the young man turns very pale. AVidi his half-pinioned arms, he 
arranges the frill of tlie ruffle around his wrist ; he binds the handkerchief 
over his face. 

Oh, father of souls, that look ! Yes, ere he winds the handkerchief 
around his brow, he casts one glance, one deep and yearning look over the 
faces of men, the river, the sky, the mountains. 

That look is his farewell to earth ! 

"Why do those stout men cry like little children ? Heads bowed on their 
breasts, faces turned away, showering tears — the sun shines on them all. 

The young man leaps lightly into the cart — Does'n't it make yolir blood 
run cold to see the rough hangman wind that rope around his neck, so fair, 
so like a woman's ? 

Now, there is silence, and tears, and veiled faces, in that crowd. 

— At this moment let us look yonder, in that quiet room, away in Eng- 
land. A mother and two fair sisters sit there, embroidering a scarf, for the 
son and brother, who is now in a far land. 

" Hark !" exclaims the dark-haired sister ; " it is not his footstep ?" 

And as she goes to the door, trembling with suspense and joy, and looks 
out for her brother — Here, that Itrother stands, upon the death-cart, with 
the haxginiin's rope about his niric .' 

Even as the sister looks forth from her home, to behold his form 



THE KNIGHT OF THE MESCHIANZA. 223 

Ah, at the very moment the liangraan speaks to his horse, tlie cart moves 
oil — look ! 

There is a human being dangling- at the end of a rope, plunging and 
quivering in the air. Behold it, nor shudder at the sight ! That black- 
ened face, livid, blue, purple at turns, those starting eyes, — Oh, hide the 
horrid vision ! What, hide the Poetry of the Gallows ? 

Hide it you may, but still the thick, gurgling groan of that dying man 
breaks on your ear. 

That is the Music of the Gallows. 

Ah, can that loathsome corse, with the distorted face, can that be the 
gallant Knight who fell at the feet of the lovely girl, in the gay Tournament ? 

While he hangs quivering on the gallows, yonder in New York, before a 
glittering mirror, stands Benedict Arnold, surveying his proud form, attired 
for the first time, in tliat hangman's dress — a scarlet uniform. 

Yonder — even while the last tremor shakes his form — yonder, alone, 
kneels George Washington, in prayer with his God. 

And now, as they thrust his young form — scarcely cold — into the pine 
coffin, his mother and sisters, in that far English town, have done embrodi- 
ering the scarf — nay, that one dark-eyed sister lias even worked his name 
in the corner — 

" My Brother * * * » John Andre." 



From that Gibbet of John Andre, the fairest flowers of Poetry and 
Romance wave fragrandy from the niglit of ages. 

Around that hideous thing of evil, whose blackened timbers rise before 
us from the twilight of sixty-seven years, are clustered the brightest and 
the darkest memories, like a mingled crowd of fiends and angels. 

His fate was very dark, yet on the very darkness of the cloud that hung 
over his setting sun, his name has been written in characters of light. 

All that can melt the heart in pathos, all that can make the blood run 
cold in tragedy, scenes of tender beauty, memories of immeasurable horror, 
are grouped beside the dishonored grave of John Andre. 

A volume might be filled, with the incidents connected with his closing 
hour ; the long winter nigiit passed unheeded away, ere the narrator could 
tell but half the Legends that hover round bis tomb. 

There was that in his fate, which made his friends stand palzied with 
horror, his very enemies shed tears for him. The contempt, which all 
lionorable men feel for one who undertakes the lacquey work of Treason, 
and plays the part of a Spy, was lost in the unmeasured scorn which all 
men felt for Benedict Arnold. 

Behold the Legends that hover above the grave of Andre the Spy. 



224 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 



XVII.— JOHN CIIAMPE. 



A SOFT voliipliioiis li^'lit porviidcd lli-.it liixurioiis cliambfr. 

It was lliu iiiijlit 111' Novi!iiil)or Scouiul, 1780. Tlie mansion was one 
of the most magnificent in l!ie New York of that day. It stood in a 
garden, planted witli vines and (lowers. Near ihis garden a dark alley led 
to the river. 

The vines and flowers were withered now. The night was dark, and 
the spacious mansion lay wrapt in shadow. There were dim shadowy 
figures moving along the darkness of the alley. Yet from a single window, 
through the closed curtains, the warm gleam of a light flashed over the 
deserted gard.en. 

In the centre of this chamber, stood a beautiful woman, her form clad in 
a habit of black velvet, her dark hair laid plainly back from her clear 
forehead. 

As the light falls over that firm — one hand laid upon the table, the 
fingers touching a parchment — while the oilier clasps the bosom, heaving 
through its dark vestment, let us gaze upon this beautiful woman, and ask 
the cause of her lonely watch ? 

The chamber is eleganll)' furnished. The gorgeous carpet was woven 
in a Turkish loom, the massive chairs are cushioned with crimson velvet, 
Ihe wainscot blooms with fruits and flowers, carved from the forest oak. 
The lamp standing on the table, its warm light softened and refined by a 
shade of clouded glass, is upheld by a sculptured figure of Apollo. The 
hangings of dark crimson velvet depending along these windows, their folds 
presenting masses of liglit and shade, are worth)' the hall of a Prince. 

In yonder corner from a shadowy niche, the marble form of the .Medicean 
Venus steals gently on you. Beautiful in its spotless whiteness, Ihis image 
of womanly loveliness, with the averted head, the gently bending form, the 
half-raised hands steals sofily on your eye, like a glimpse from Eden. 

And the living woman, who stands by the table there, her tall form clad 
in dark velvet, impresses you with her strange wild beauty, more than all 
the statues in the world. 

Do you mark the bosom heaving from its vestment? The alabaster of 
that rounded neck, contrasted with the bl.ack velvet which encircles it ? 
The falling symmetry of the waist, contrasted witli the ripe fulness of the 
other part of her figure ! The foot protruding from the folds of the habit, 
small and delicate, cased in a satin slipperaud beating with an impetuous 
motion against the carpet ? 

The form bewilders you with its impeluous loveliness, but the face 
startles you with the conflict of passions, impressed on every outline. 

The bloom of the cheeks, the love of the warm lips, tlie melting softness 



JOHN CHAMPE. 225 

of the (lark eyes, are all lost in a pale fixed exprcss'on nf rf-cln'r despair. 
Yes, there is Despair written on that beautiful countenance, but Revenge 
glares in the deadly fire of those dark eyes. The white brow is deformed 
by a hideous wrinkle, that, black and swollen, swells upward lo the roots 
of the hair. 

Who is this woman so pale in the face, so voluptuous in the form, now 
waiting alone in this silent chamber ? 

Her hand rests upon a letter, inscribed with the name of — Benedict 
Arnold. 

That sword resting on the tabic, with the dented edge and battered hilt, 
is the sword of Quebec and Saratoua. 

The bhie uniform thrown car('lessly over the arm of the chair, is the 
costume of a Continental hero. Wherefore are sword and uniform thrown 
neglectedly aside, in this luxurious room ? 

It is the apartment of Benedict Arnold. He does not wield that sword, 
or wear that uniform anv longer. He is a 'I'raitor, and makes his home 
here in the city of New York, in this spacious mansion. 

The sound of a bell disturbs the silence; it t(jlls the hour of twelve. 

The beautiful woman is still there, her bosom fluttering with those 
pulses of revenge, which resemble the throbblngs of love, as the lurid torch 
of the assassin resembles the soft sad light of the moon. 

Presently raising her dark eyes, she unfastens the gold button that rises 
with each throb of her heart. She uncovers that bosom, now tlie home of 
hideous passion. She draws forth not a love-letter, nor yet the lock of a 
lover's hair, but a glittering and pointed dagger. 

Grasping that dagger with her small hand, while the lines of strange 
emotion arc drawn more darkly over her face, she speaks in a hollow 
voice : 

" If the plot fails, this must do the work of my love and my revenge !" 

Then sinking in the arm-chair, this woman overcome by her emotion, 
lets the dagger fall, and bursts into tears. 

O, that agony of a heart that loved so truly, hoped so madly, and then 
lived to see both love and hope turned to hatred and despair, by the hand 
of death ! 

Is this the wife of Arnold ? Gaze on her dark eyes and black hair, and 
remendjer that the hair of the wife waves in flakes of sunshine gold, that 
her eyes are summer blue. Is it his Ladye-lovc ? The thought is vain. 
Say rather, as you behold the bosom torn by fiery passions, the eyes dart- 
ing the magnetic rays of revenge, the dagger gleaming death from its keen 
blade, that this lovely woman waiting alone iji his most secret chamber, is 
his ExEcvriONER ! 

You observe the chain, with its slender links of gold falling from the 
neck, into the shadowv recess of her bosom. She raises the chain ; a min- 



226 BENCniCT ARNOLD 

iatiire is revealed ; the portrait of a gallant cavalier with hazel eyes, and 
locks of dark brown hair. 

" So young, so gallant, so brave ! The last time he pressed my hand — 
the last time liis kiss nicltcd on my lips ! O, God, shall I ever forget it ? 
A'ld — now " 

As the liidcous picture broke in all its details upon her brain, she started 
to her feet, grasping the dagger once more with a hand that knew no tremor. 

She heard the sound of a fnotstpp eciiniiig from afar, throiigli the cor- 
ridors of the mansion. Reiuliiig her head to one side, slie listened, as her 
lips parted and her eyes dilated. 

Site then approached the window. The ropc-ladJer which had gained 
Jier admittance, was still confined beneath the sash. A dark object touclied 
her feet ; it was her velvet manUe, concealing a precious relic of the dead, 
the warrior costume of one loved and lost. 

She shrouds herself williin that vohiminous curtain. Shrouded from the 
light within, and the profane gaze without by this impenetrable veil, she 
loosens the fastenings of her dress, while her bosom freed from those velvet 
folds, soars more tumultnously npward. Another moment, and her 
woman's costume flutters from her form. You hear a sob, a sigh, a mut- 
tered word, and stepping from the curtain's shadow, this beautiful woman 
comes once more toward the light, attired 

In the silken robes of a queen ? 

Or, in the majesty of her own loveliness ? 

No ! She stands before us attired as a young and gallant cavalier. 

From those white shoulders descends a red coat, with wide skirts and 
facings of gold. The bosom is veiled beneath a vest of finest doe-skin, 
which falls in loose folds around the waist. Cand)ric rufllcs hide the white- 
ness of the throat, while eacli elegantly moulded limb is encased in a war- 
rior's boot. Those dark tresses are covered with a gay chapeau, heavy 
with lace and waving with plumes. 

Beautiful in her woman's costume, but most bewitching as a gallant 
cavalier ! 

You now gaze upon the movements of the disguised woman with deep- 
ening interest. 

She listens — the echo of that footstep grows near and near. Gazing on 
the mahogony panels of the folding door, the lady sinks in the arm chair. 
Iler position is peculiar. The head bowed, the cheek laid on the hand, 
the face averted, she awaits the approach of the Unknown, with statue-like 
immovability. 

As she sits there, with the light playing downward over her forn; — the 
chapeau hiding her face in shadow — tell me, what strange resemblance chills 
you with an involuntary horror? 

This beautiful woman resembles — O, fearfully resembles — a young and 
gallant cavalier, whose hand could write poetry, paint pictures or wield a 



JOHN CHAMPE. 227 

sword, whose foot sprung as liglitly toward the cannon's muzzle, as it 
boundetl in the dance. 

But vvliat young and gallant cavalier. 

You dare not repeat his name ! A sickening tragedy crowds on your 
memory, as that name arises ! The image of a handsome form, hidden 
beneath clods of clay, the worms revelling over its brow, the taint of the 
gibbet's rope about its neck ! 

How the heart of that woman beats, as she hears that foot ! 

"He comes!" she murmurs, still preserving that strange position — ■ 
" Murderer and Traitor, he comes ! At the dead hour of midnight, to his 
most secret chamber, he comes, to lay liis plans of ambition and plot new 
treasons ! But here, in the silence of tliis room, where his guilty heart can 
find no refuge from its remorse, here, placing his foot on yonder threshhold, 
he will feel his blood curdle with horror, as he beholds, seated at his table, 
waiting for him, the form of the murdered — John Andre !" 

You will confess with me, that the revenge of this impetuous woman is 
terrible. 

" Arnold ! That sight should blast you into madness !" 

Nearer — nearer yet, the sound of that step is heard. The woman trem- 
bles. There is a hand upon the door — she hears the step on ils opposite 
side. Still that statue-like position — still the endeavor to hide the anguish 
of the heart, by laying one hand upon the swelling bosom. 

The door opens. The disguised woman hears the footstep cross the 
threshhold. Is it a warrior's footstep ? Too light, two soft, too delicate ! 
She does not raise her head to look, but suddenly the sound of that stealthy 
tread is lost in silence. 

There, slightly advanced from the shadows of the threshhold, stands — 
the appalled form of Benedict Arnold ? No ! 

No ! Would that it were ! But there, disclosed by the light, stands a 
young woman, her blooming form clad in a loose robe, her unfastened hair 
drooping to her uncovered shoulders. 

You see her blue eyes centred on the figure by the table. At that sight 
the roses wither on her cheek — her bosom bounds from its slight covering. 
Her uplifted arm, grasping a bed-room candle, is palzied — her lips slowly 
part — unable to advance or retreat, she stands before you, a picture of unut- 
terable anguish. 

At last she gathers courage to speak — to address the Phantom. 

" Andre speak to me 1" she gasps. 

At that voice, the disguised woman feels her blood grow cold. Slightly 
turning her face, she gazes on the woman with golden hair, between the 
fingers of her right hand. 

" Andre !" again the voice of the horror-stricken woman is lieard — " You 
come from the grave to haunt me ! Speak — O, speak to me ! Could I 



228 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

help ii, if your fate was so dark ami cold .' Your deaili so hideous ? Your 
grave so dishonored f" ^ 

The woman clatl in the allire of John Andre slowly rises. She turns, 
and llinifiiij; the cliajifau aside, coiirront;! llio — Wife (ifAriiold. 

Yes, llio lady-love of John Andre, coiifronls the wife of his Evil (ienius, 
BcnediiU Arnold. 

You will remember that this Wife, when a hlooming virgin, once in the 
revelry of a TournauKMit, crowned John Andre with a cliaplet of laurel and 
roses, that she corresponded with hiin some months after her marriage, 
that in her letters, the letters of Arnold to Sir Henry Clinton were envel- 
oped, that — perchance — from her girlhood memories, — perchance — from 
deeper reasons — he was dear to her heart ! 

Therefore, you will understand, that this meeting in the secret chamber 
of Arnold, was a strangely interesting scene. 

The lady-love of the tSpy — the Wife of the Traitor! Behold them sur- 
vey each other. The wife s-weeps back her golden tresses from her brow, 
as if to gaze more clearly upon the Disguised woman. The lady-love 
stands erect, in her voluptuous beauty, a mocking smile upon her lip, a liend- 
like scorn in her dark eyes. 

" Virginia I)e *»»*»!" exclaimed the Wife, breathing a name renowned 
for virtue, wealth and beauty — "You here! In tlie chamber of " 

" I await vour husband, ma<lam !" re])lied the strange woman, laying her 
hand upon the dagger, and a deadly light blazed from her dark eyes. 

At this mouienl a sound is heard, like the raising of a window. A shadow 
steals from the curtains, approaches the light, and you behold the form of a 
Soldier, clad in scarlet uniform. 

He surveys the two women, and unfastening his coat, reveals the blue 
and hull" CoMliiicntal uniform. His features are concealed by a veil of dark 
crape. 

" Is all ready ?" whispered the lady disguised in the attire of Andre ; • 
" The Traitor is not vet come. But there, you behold his wife. It is well. 
She shall heboid his Punishment !" 

And as the Wife shrank back appalled, there commenced in that lonely 
chamber of .\rnold, a scene of wild interest. 

This, you will remember, was on the night of November Second, 1780. 

Ayiidre had been captured some forty-two days before, on the twenty- 
third of September. 

AVe will now reveal to you, a scene which took place but a few days 
after his capture. 



Alone in his marque', on the heights of Tappan, sat General Washington, 
his sword placed on the table, which was covered with piles of papers. 
He was writing.— Not often was his face disturbed by emotion, but at 

28 



i 



JOHN CIIAMPE. 229 

this still hour — while the stars came shining out above tlie mountains and 
over the river— his entire form was sliaken by a powerful agitation. 

As the liyht streamed upon his face, his lips were compressed, his eye- 
brows drawn downward, his eyes wet with nioisture. 

It was plainly to be seen, that the sense of a severe duty, to be perforniod 
by hiin, was struggling with the softer feelings of his heart. SliU he wrote 
on. iSiili, combatting the writlungs of his breast, he committed his thoughts 
to paper. 

Presendy a shadow stood in tlie doorway of his tent. 

Do you Ill-hold that form ? Thai is one of the most renowned Knights 
of the Revqlution. Yes, this young man, whose slight form is clad in a 
green coat, with pistols in his girdle, and a trooper's sword by his side, is 
a true Knight, who loves danger as a brother, and plays willi sword and 
bayonet as though he thought Death itself a pastime. 

His face is swarthy and freckled, his eyes, dark grey, and piercing as a 
dagger's point. His frame is very slight, and yet you see in every outliae 
the traces of an iron will, a knightly daring. 

Wasliinglon gazes upon him with pride, for that young man has played 
sad tricks in his time, with the good soldiers of King George. 

Sometimes, in the hour of batUe, when die British thought the Rebels 
altogether beaten, aye, when their legions drove the Continentals from the 
field, like sheep before the wolf, this young man, would dart from the covert 
of a thicket, and write his mark upon their faces. He came not alone, you 
will remember. Eighty iron forms, mounted on sinewy steeds, were wont 
to follow at his back, with eighty swords flashing above their heads. And 
the way they came down upon the British, was beautiful to see, for each 
trooper marked his man, and that mark always left a dead body beneath 
the horse's hoofs. 

There was not a soldier in llie British army who did not know this 
young man. He was so unmannerly ! 

They sometimes, after having plundered an American farm-house, and 
murdered a few dozen farmers, would gather round a comfortable lire, for a 
quiet meal. But then, the blaze of rifles would flash through the shutters, 
the door would give way, and this Young Man, with his troopers, would 
come in, rather rudely, and eat the meal which the British had prepared. — 
Yon may be sure that he took good care of these red coat gentlemen, before 
eating their supper. 

Still he was a glorious young man ! Yon should liavc seen him, on 
some dark night, scouring a darker road, at the licad of his men, and march- 
ing some fifty miles without once pidling a bridle rein, so that he might 
pay his regards to his dear friends, the British ! 

Then, how he crashed into their camp, making sweet music with his 
eighty swords I 

27 



230 BENEDICT ARNOLD. ♦ 

He loved the British so. that he was never happy, unless he was near 
them. 

Oftentimes, in the hour of battle, Washington would turn to La Fayette, 
and poiiitini; with his sword, far down the shadows of a detile, observe in a 
quiot way — •• The Major is yonder ! Do you see him. at the head of 
his men ? .\h. General, it does one's heart good to see him pour down 
upon (he enemv, when they think he is a hundred miles away !" 

His men loved their captain dearly. It mattered not how dark the night, 
or how tired with the previous day's toil, or how starved thev were, let the 
Major once whisper — " There is work for us, my friends !'' and ere five 
minutes passed, eighty horses bore eighty men on their way, while the 
stars played with the blades of eighty swonls. 

And as the Men of that hero-band loved their captain, so the horses loved 
the men, — That man who does not love his horse, even as a comrade, is no 
warrior. — Gathered like the Men from the beautiful hills of Carolina, these 
horses alwavs seemed to know that a battle was near, and when it came 
dashed with erect heads, tirm front, and ijuivering nostrils, on the foe. 

Even when tlie bullet or the cannon ball, pierced their smooth tlankf, 
these horses would crawl on while life lasted, and with their teeth tear ilie 
horses of tl\e enemy. 

AVhv all these words to describe the chivalry of this hero-band I 

You may compress courage, honor and glory in three words — The 
Legion* of Lkk ! 

Ave, the Legion of Lee, for it was their Captain, who now stood uncov- 
ered in the presence of Washington. 

" Major," said Washington, pointing witli his right arm, through the 
door of the tent. " Look yonder !" 

The Major turned and looked — not upon the beautiful Hudson, nor the 
mountains — but upon a small stone house, which arose from the bosom of 
tlie sward. > 

The Major understood the extended finger and look of Washington. — In 
that stone house, John Andre was a prisoner. Taken as a Spy. he would 
be hung on a felon's gibbet. — 

'• Is there no way to save him !" said Lee, in a voice that quivered with 
emotion. 

" There is." said Washington, " It depends upon you to save him, and 
at the same time, save th° honor of an American General !" 

Lee siarteil with surprise. 

" On me J" he echoed. 

" You behold these papers ! Intercepted despatches of the enemy, which 
implicate one of our bravest general's in the treason of Arnold ?" 

Lee slanced over the papers and sulTered an ejaculation of surprise to 
pass his lips. 

"Andre has your sympathies — " said Washington — "So youE^, so 



JOHN CIIAMPE. 231 

gallant, so cliivalrous, he has the hearts ol' all men with liirn. And yet 
unless a certain thing can be accomplished, he must die. Not even the 
death of a soldier will be awarded him, bnt the death of a common lelon. 
You can save him, Major Lee! You can rescue the name of this General 
from tlie taint of Treason !" 

And thus speaking, that Deliverer Washington, turned the eloquence of 
his face and eyes full upon Major Iiee. 

Never had the Knight of the Legion beheld his Chief so powerfully 
agitated. 

Lee trembled to see this great man — always so calm and impenetrable — 
now alTected almost to tears. 

" General, spealc the word and I will do it !"' exclaimed the Parlizan, 
sharing the emotion of Washington. 

The Chief reveals his plan. Why is it, that Lee turns pale and red by 
turns, knits his brows and clenches his hands, and at last falters a refusal ' 

But Washiuirton will not be denied, .\gain with his face and voice all 
eloquent, with deep emotion, he urges the enterprise. 

" Andre must die unless you consent. '1 here is no hope for him ! Everj- 
one pities, everj' one confesses the justice of his doom ! What have I 
neglected, to save his life ? No sooner was his capture known to me, than 
I despatched a Special messenger to Congress. I asked the counsel of my 
Generals. I questioned my own heart, I besought guidance from my God ! 
Behold the result! My Generals weep for him, but condemn. Congress 
confirms that sentence. The struggle of my own soul, and my prayers to 
Heaven, have one result. This young man must pay the penalty of his 
crime, and die a felon's death !" 

Washington passed his hand over his brow, as with every feature quiv- 
ering with emotion, he surveyed the face of Lee. 

" And all this you may avert ! You — Lee — whom I have never known 
to falter — may save the life of Andre !" 

How could Major Lee refuse .' To stand and liear Washington, with 
tears in his eyes, beseech him to save the life of Andre ! 

" General, I consent !" he said, in a voice husky with emotion. Wash- 
ington wrung his hand, with a grasp that made Lee's heart bound widiin 
him. 

The camp of Lee's Legion was pitched near the roadside, in the shadows 
of a secluded dell. Their white tenls wore constrasted with the dark rocks 
all around. The music of a brook rippled on the silence of the air. From 
afar, the broad river flashed in tiie light of the stars. 

In the centre of the encampment arose the tent of Henry Lee. The 
furniture of that tent was by no means luxurious. A chest, on which a 
flickering candle was placed — a narrow bed — a militarv cloak — a sword and 
pair of pistols. 



132 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

Lee was seated on (lie beil, wiih liis head placed between his hands. 
But a half an hour ago, he had conversed with Washington, and now, he 
was to hold a similar conversation with one of the bravest men of his iron band. 

Tiu're was the sound of a heavy footstep, and that man stood before him. 
It must be confessed, that he looki-d tlie SoUher in every incli of iiis form. 

Imagine a man of some twenty-four years, somewhat above the common 
size, with a bronzed visage, a form full of bone and muscle, and the air of a 
soldier, whom danger could only delight. lie was attired in a green 
trooper's coat, breeciies of Inickr^kiii, and long boots of dark iealher. A pair 
of pistols hung from one side of his belt ; a long and ponderous sword from 
the other. 

He stood before Lee, with his heavy steel helmet faced with fur, in his 
right hand. 

The Major surveyed him for a moment with a look of admiration, and 
then stated the desperate enterprize in all its details. 

Tiie brave man trembled, sluulilered, and grew pale, as he heard the 
words of his commander. Yes, Sergeant John Champe, — an iron man, 
who had never known fear — now felt afraid. 

No words ran depict the agony of that half hour's interview. 

At last, as Lee bent forward, exclaiming, " Would you save the life of 
Audre ?" Champe hurried from tiie tent. 

From a nook among the bushes he led forth his steed. While the hel- 
met, drawn over his brows, slKidowcd the emotion of his swarthy visage 
from the light of the rising moon, he silently llung his cloak over tlie back 
of the horse, lied his valise to the saddle, and placed his orderly book within 
the bre;.st of his coat. 

These preparations all betokened the stern composure of a mind bent 
on a desperate deed. 

In silence he led the horse along the sward, under the shadow of the 
thicket. At last, emerging into the light, where two high rocks, overlook- 
ing the road, raised their brows in the beams of the moon, he placed his 
hand on the saddle, antVlaid his face against the neck of his steed. His 
emolions were dark and bitter. 

The beauty of that horse's proportions was revealed in the calm, clear 
light. His hue was dark as ink. A single star on the forehead varied the 
midnight blackness of his hide. A small head, a sinewy body, supported 
by lit;ht and elastic limbs, a long mane and waving tail, an eye that softened 
as it met it's master, or glared terribly in the hour of battle — such was the 
horse of John Champe, the renowned Sergeant JMajor of Lee's Legion. 

That horse had been given to him in 1776, by the old man, his father. 
Before the door of his home, in a green valley of Loudon county, Virginia, 
the white-haired patriot had bestowed this parting gift to his son. 

"John, 1 bid you good bye with a single word ! When you fight, strike 
with all your might— and never let this horse bear you from the foe !" 



JOHN CUAMPE. 23S 

And now this Son, blessed by his Patriot Father, was about to turn the 
horse's head toward the British Camp, the soldier, praised by Washington 
and loved hy Lee, was about to turn — Dkserter ! 

He had never groaned in battle, but now he uttered a cry of anguish, as 
he thought of that fatal word ! 

" You have borne me many a time, old Powhatan, into the ranks of the 
foe ! Now — now — you must bear me to New York — you must carry the 
Deserter into the enemy's camp ! Come — we have many miles to travel — 
many dangers to dare !" 

This horse, — known by his master as Powhatan — after the Indian king 
— raised his head, and with quivering nostrils, uttered a long and piercing 
neigh. He thought that he was about to bear his master to battle ! What 
knew he of that word of scorn — Deserter? 

As Chainpe stood beside his steed, wrapped in deep thought, a mass of 
dark clouds, that had been gathering on the mountain tops, c^me rolling 
over the moon. From an aperture in the black mass, a parting ray of 
moonlight streamed down upon the soldier and his steed. 

All around was dark, yet that picture stood out from the back-ground of 
rocks, in strong light — the mounted soldier, his horse starting forward, as 
he raised his hand to heaven, with the moonbeams on his writhing face ! 

The horse moved onward ! Champe passed the boundary of the camp, 
and dashed along the road. The thundiT growled and the rain fell. Still 
down into the shadows of the road. On the corner of a projecting rock,, 
stood a Patrole of Lee's band, his horse by his side. A challenge — Who 
goes there ? No answer ! The crack of a rifle ! 

The button is torn from the breast of his coat, yet still Champe the 
Deserter dashes on. 

The rain fell in large drops, sinking heavily into the roadside dust. From 
afar, the thunder moaned, its sound resembling the eclio of huge rocks, pre- 
cipitated from an immense height over an inclined plane of brass. 

Ere half an hour passed. Captain Games, a brave and somewhat sangui- 
nary ofhcer, rushed into Lee's tent, with a pale face and scowling brow. 

Lee was on his couch, but not asleep. 

" Major, a soldier has just passed the patrole, and taken the road to the 
enemy '." 

" What?" cried the Partizan, with an incredulous smile — " A trooper of 
Lee's Legion turn Deserter ? Impossible !" 

" Not only a trooper of the Legion," cried the indignant Captain, " But 
John Champe, the bravest of the band !" 

" John (yhampe desert ? By Jove, Major, you must be dreaming !" And 
Lee turned himself to sleep again. 

But the Captain would not be denied. Again with many an oath and 
exclamation of contempt, as he named the Sergeant, he stated on his honor, 



»34 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

that Champe had been seen taking the route to Paulus Hook, opposite the 
city of New York. 

Lee heard this informauon wiih deep emotion. He could not believe that 
Champe would desert The idea was ridiculous ; some mistake had hap- 
pened ; he wished to sleep, for he was fatigued with his ride to hea<i-<)uar- 
ters : in fact, half an hour passed before Captain Cames could impress the 
Pariizau wiili the faoi, that one of his bravest men had eone over to the 
British. 

At last Lee arose, and sent for Comet MidvUeton. a man oi stout irame, 
with a ruddy face with light brown hair. He was noted for the mildness 
of his temper, while Carnes was fierce to crueliv. 

" Comet, it appears that Sergeant Champe has taken the road to Paulus 
Hook. Take with you twenty dragoons and pursue him. Bring him 
alive — " his face quivered in every feature as he spoke — - so that he may 
sufler in presence of the army ! Kill him if he resists I — " Every nerve 
of his form trembled with an emotion, the cause of which was unknown 
to the bystanders — " Jye, kill him if he resists, or escapes after being 
taken!"' 

Lee was now alive in every vein. So anxious was he, that the Deserter 
should be taken, that he spent another half hour in giving the Coroet direc- 
tions with regard to tlte pursuit 

At a few minutes past twelve. Henry Lee, standing near the door of his 
tent, beheld the Cornet and his Dragoons gallop forward, their swords glit- 
tering in tlie light 

As the last man disappeared. Lee entered his tent and flung himself upon 
the couch. 

He passed that night like a man under sentence of death. 

All the mildness of his nature turned to gall, by this flagrant act of 
Treachery on the part of one so renowned as Champe, the Comet dashed 
alonj the road, at the head of his men. Every Up was clenol-.ed, everv 
brow wore a scowl. Woe ! to the Deserter if he encounters these iron 
men. his pursuers and executioners ! 

They hurried on. pausing now aud then in their i-nrver. to t-xninuje the 
print of hoofs, stamped in the dust of the road. The laoon came out and 
revealed tliese traces of the traitor"^ career. The horse-shoes of the Le- 
gion were impressed with a peculiar mark. The recent rain settling the 
dust left each foot-print clear and distinct There was no doubt of success ; 
thev were on the track of the Deserter. 

Their swords clattering, the sound of their horses' hoofs echoing through 
the wood, they dashed on, eager for the blood of this man, who lately 
shared their mess, and fc ;' ,- their bravest 

It was at the break of «.'. i' most exciting scene took place. 



f 



JOHN CHAMPE. 235 

Some miles to ihe iiorili of ilie village of Bergen, arose a high hill, com- 
manding a view of the road far lo the south. 

Cornet Aliddleton, riding at tlie liead of his men, led the waj' up the hill ; 
a wild hurrali broke from iiis band. 

Ilah" a mile to the south, tiiey beheld the black, horse, his sides whitened 
with foam ; they beheld the Deserter, with his head turned over liis shoul- 
der. He saw them come, he knew his doom if taken, so, digging the rowels 
into the flanks of his steed, he bounded away. 

It was a splendid sight to see the troopers thundering down one hill, 
while Champe — alone, desperate, the object of their vengeance — excited his 
horse to unnatural eftbrts of speed, in ascending the opposite hill. 

He gained tlie summit, looked back, uttered a hurrah in scorn, and was 
gone. 

On the brow of this hill, by the roadside, arose the hotel of the Three 
Pidgeons. 

The Cornet reined his steed in full career : 

" Beyond the village of Bergen, the higli road crosses a bridge, which 
the deserter must cross in order to reach Paulus Hook. You see this bye- 
road on your left ? Sergeant Tiiomas, you will take four dragoons, and 
gain this bridge by the sliort-cut — conceal yourselves — and wail the ap- 
proach of the traitor — while we drive him into the ambush, by pursuing the 
high road !" 

You see the veteran Thomas — whose face bears llie marks of battles 
fought amid the snows of Canada, under the sun of Carolina — with four 
dragoons dash into the shadows of the bye-path, wiiile the Cornel hurries 
on in the high road. The capture of the deserter is now certain. 

That road-side tavern is soon left behind. Cornet Middleton, his face 
flushed with the fever of pursuit, his eye llred with the ardor of the ciiase, 
points the way with his sword, speaks lo his horse and at the head of his 
band thunders on. 

For a moment they lose sight of the chase. He — the Deserter, the 
Traitor — is lost to view behind those trees, on the summit of yonder hill. 
Now he bursts into light again, urging his black horse to desperate teats : 
they see him bending forward, they see the noble steed dasli on with the 
speed of a hurled javelin, while the while foam gathers on liis neck and 
bailies his flanks. 

" On, my comrades ! We must secure this villain, or be disgraced ! 
Only think of it — one of Lee's legion a deserter ! The honor of the corps 
is at stake I Ha — ha — we gain on him, we will have him, aye, before the 
day is an hour older ! There he is again — you see his horse is tired, he 
seems about to fall ! On — on my boys ! Through the village of Bergen, 
we will drive him toward the Bridge, and there, ho, ho ! The fox is 
caught — we '11 be in at the death !'' 

The music of those rattling bridles, those clanking scabbards, those hoofs 



be BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

thundering down wiih one sounil. was very pleasant to hear. But those 
compressed lips, those eyes glaring from beneath the steel frontlet of each 
trooper's helm, did not indicate much mercy for the Deserter. 

IJnt a quarter of a mile in front, Champe looked over his shoulder, and 
saw them come ! Now is the time to try the raeiile of Powhatan ! Now 
— if you do not love the gibbet's rope — make one bold elTori and secure 
your neck, by gaining Paulus Hook ! 

Champe saw them come. His dark face assumed a ferocious expression, 
his eves shone with a wild intensity. 

" On — on — Powhatan !" he muttered, while the blood and foam streamed 
down the flanks of his steed. 

Like the limb of a tree, rent by the hurricane and hurled along the 
darkened air, Champe dashed into the old town of Bergen, and was lost to 
view, among the shadows of its rustic homes. 

Close at his heels followed Middleton, marking the traces of his horse's 
hoofs, windiiiij where he had wound, turning where he had turned — while 
the dragoons at his back, preserving a death-like silence, began to feel that 
the crisis of the chase was near. 

Suddenly they lose all traces of the Deserter's course. Amid these 
streets and lanes he has doubled, until the foot-tracks of his horse are no 
longer discernable. 

" Never mind, my bnvs ! He has taken the road to Paulus Hook — to 
the bridge, to tiie bridge !" 

" To the bridge !" responded the sixteen troopers, and away tliey 
dashed. 

It was a fine old bridge of massive rocks and huge timbers, with the 
■waves roaring below, and forest trees all about it. The red earth of the 
road was contrasted with auiumn-dyed forest leaves above. 

They turn the bend of the road, they behold the bridge. Yes, they 
have him now, lor yonder, reined in the centre of the road, are the bold 
Serseant and his comrades. Near and nearer draws Middleton and his 
band. 

Leaning over the neck of his steed, he shouts : 

" You have him, Sergeant ? Yes, I knew it ! He plunged blind-fold 
into the trap I'.' 

The Sergeant waves his swonl and shouts, but they cannot distinguish 
his words. 

Still on in their career, until with one sudden movement they wheel their 
steeds upon tlie bridge. 

" The prisoner — where is he ?" thunder sixteen voices in chorus. 

" He is not here. We waited for him but he came not this way — '* 
growled the old Sergeant. 

With a burst of cries and oaths, the whole band wheel, and hasten back 
to the village. In a moment disi^ersed through all the streets, they search 



JOHN CHAMPE. 237 

for the foot-tracks of tlie deserter. The villagers roused from their shim- 
bers saw him pass — a solitary tnan, with despair on Ills face, urging his 
steed witli spur and bridie-rein — luit cannot tell the way he lias gone. 

The search is tumultuous, hurried, intensely interesting. At last a 
trooper's cr)' is heard — 

" Here he is ! I've found his track !" 

And ere the word has passed from his lips, another trooper points with 
his sword — 

" Yonder, look yonder ! On the road to Elizabeth Town Point, he 
rides ! Ah — he has tricked us ! Foiled in his purpose to gain Paulus 
Hook, he is determined to make at once for the Bay, and take refuge 
a-board the British galleys !" 

And there on the road to tlie Point, they beheld their chase. He must 
gain the shore of the bay, swim to the British galleys or bo taken ! It is 
his last hope. 

But three hundred yards of beaten road, separates the pursuers and pur- 
sued. Only that space of red earth, between John Champe and the Gal- 
lows ! Let his brave steed but miss his footing, or stumble for an instant, 
and he is a doomed man. 

It was terrilie to see the manner in which they dashed after him, every 
horse nerved to his utmost speed. As the troopers dug the rowels into the 
(lanks of their steeds, they drew their pistols. 

John Champe felt that the crisis of his fate was near. Patting gentlv on 
the neck of iiis brave horse, whispering encouragement to him in a low 
tone, he looked back and felt his heart bound. His pursuers had gained 
ilfty yards — were rapidlj- nearing him ! 

As this fact became evident, the river, the city, and the bay broke upon 
his view ! A beautiful city, that thrones itself amid glorious waters — a 
noble river rushing from its mountain fortress, to make battle with the sea 
— a lordly bay, that rolls its waters from island to island, rellecting on 
every wave, the blue autumnal sky, the uprising sun. 

It was a beautiful sight, but John Champe had no time, no eye for beau- 
tiful sights just now. The only beauty that met his eye, was the vision of 
the British Galleys, rising and falling upon the waves, within pistol-shot of 
shore. The fresh breeze played with the British llag, and tossed it gaily 
to and t'ro. 

Joiin belield the galleys, the ilag, and knew the moment of his fate had 
come. 

Let us look upon him now, as three luindred yards lie between him and 
the shore, while his pursuers are within tuo hundred yards of his horse's 
heels. 

He looked back, every vein of Iiis face swollen, his eyes startintr from 
the expanded lids. He counted the number of his pursuers. Twenty 
men, twenty horses, twenty swords, twenty levelled pistols ! He could see 



!239 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

Ihe inoriung sun jjliiter on their buttons — yes, their faces convulsed witJi 
rage, their horses with quivering nostrils, were tliere clearly and distincUy, 
in the liiihl of the new-risiMi day. 

IJut two hundred yards belwcen him and death ! 

" Vield !" shouted Cornet Middleton, whose while horse led the way — 
" Yield, or you die !" 

Chanipo turned and smiled. They could see his white Ii'oth, contrasted 
with his sun-burnt face. That laugh of scorn lircd their blood. Without a 
shout, witliout an oath, lltey crashed along the road. 

'I'lio movements of Champe were somewhat peculiar. 

Even in tliat moment of awful suspense, he took his valise and lashed it 
to his shoulders. Tlirn, risiiii; magnificently in his stirrups, he llung away 
his scabbard, placed the sword between his leeih, and threw his arms on 
high, graspiui; a pistol in each hand. 

" N.ow, come on ! Come — and do your worst !" he said in a voice, 
which low-toned and ilecp, was yet heard, above the clatter of horse's 
koofs. 

Even now I see him, yes, between the troopers and the uprising sun ! 

That hunted man, mounted on a steed, whicli black as deatli, moistens 
the dust, with the foam, that falls in flakes from its sides, that miserable 
deserter, rising erect in his stirrups, the sword between his teeth, a pistol 
ja each hand ! 

" Powhatan, save your master ! If I fall, may God pity my mother— 
my poor father ! A Deserter, rushing to the shelter of the liritish flag ! 
Help ! Help ! 1 come to seek the protection of the Kiusj !" 

A blue suuike, wound upward from the deck of each galley — a report 
like thunder startled the air. 

And while the decks, were crowded wiUi spectators, while the pursuers, 
thundered nearer to the shore, every pistol, emitiiug a volume of smoke 
and flame, that lonely man on his black horse, held on his dread career. 

It was a moment of fearful interest. 

That same day, at four o'clock in the aAernoon, a wild hurrah, disturbed 
the silence of Lee's encampment. 

Lee, sitting alone, his whole frame, shaken by some indeflnable emotion, 
heard that hurrah, and started to his feet. liusliiu<; hurridly to the door of 
his lent, he beheld a group of dragoons, dismounted, surrounding a baud of 
mounted men, whose trappings were covered wiUi dust. 

In the midst of litis band, a riderless steed, with a cloak, thrown over 
the saddle, was led along, exciting the attention of every eye. • 

Cornet Middlelon and his baud had returned. That horse, was the steed 
of John Champe, the gallant I'owhatan. 

" Joy, Major — good news !" cried a trooper rushing forward — " The 
troop have come back ! The scoundrel's killed !" 



JOHN CHAMPE. 239 

liCe was a brave man, but at that word — as the sight of llie riderless 
horse, met his eye — a sudden faiiitness came over him. Ho grasped the 
tent-pole, and grew very pale. 

"Killed did you say J" he cried in a tone of wringing emphasis — 
" Clianipe killed ! My (iod, it oaimot — cannot be true '." 

The trooper was thunder-stricken, with aslonishnunit, as he beheld, the 
sorrow painted on the Major's face. Sorrow for a traitor, grief for tho 
death of a — deserter ! 

Let us return to the chase. 

It was the crisis of the Deserter's fate. 

A pistol bullet, tore a button from his breast, as he reached the bank. 

His pursuers were not fifty yards behmd him. 

As his noble horse, stood trembling on the shore, recoiling on liis 
haunches, while the sweat and foam, streamed down his sides, Chanipe 
turned his head to his pursuers — beheld them come on — saw their pistols 
levelled once more — and in a moment was wrapt in a cloud of smoke. 

Wlien that cloud cleared away, a riderless horse, dashed wildly along the 
bank. Is he killed ? The eyes of the British on the galley-decks, the 
glances of the troopers, who scatter along the shore, all search for the corse 
of the traitor. 

Prom the shore, for fifty yards or more, extends a dreary inarch of reeds. 
You see their tops wave, as though a serpent was trailing its way over the 
oozy nnul, you see a head upraised, and then the sound of a heavy body, 
falling into the water is heard. 

Look once again, and look beyond the marsh, and see that head, rising 
above the waves, those arms dashing the spray on either side. 

It is John Champe, swimming with sword in his teeth, towards the 
nearest galley. 

Middleton and his troopers, gaze upon him, from the bank, in dismay, 
while the Commander of the galley, surrounded by sailors and soldiers, 
encourages tlie deserter with shouts. 

An old trooper of the Legion kneels, lie carries a rille — a delicate 
piece, wiili stock mounted in silver — at his back, suspended by a leather 
strap, lie unsliugs it, examines the lock, takes the aim. Old IloUbrd, 
has been in the Indian wars; he can snull'a candle at a hundred yards. 
Therefore you may imagine, the deep interest, with which the other troop- 
ers regarded him, as raising the rifle, he levelled it, at the head, appearing 
above the waters. 

John Champe may look his last upon God's beautiful sky ! 

Yes, as the sword in his teeth, gleams in the sun, Old llolford fires. At 
the same instant a heavy volume of smoke and flame, rolls frnm the 
galleys ; certain missiles make an unpleasant hissing over the trooper's 
heads. 



240 DENEDICT ARNOLD. 

When the smoke rolls away, the troopers look for the corse of tlic 
doomed man, writhing its last, ere it^inks forever. 

But the Commander of the Galle)-, reaching forth his arm, grasps the 
hand of John Champo — whose cheek bleeds from the touch of a bullet — 
and assists him to reach the deck. 

The sword still between his teeth, his cheek slightly bleeding, his uni- 
form dripping with spray. John Champe, with a pistol in each hand, 
gazes cahiily over the waters. After that composed look he hails his late 
comrades with these words. — 

" Good bye ray boys ! Take care of Powhatan and d'ye hear? Present 
my respects to Washington and Lee !" 

— From a multitude of expressions, uttered by the troopers on the bank, 
we select a single one, which fell from the lips of old Holford : 

" Pm a scoundrel," he said, doggedly, slinging his rifle — " You're a 
scoundrel" — to a comrade — " and you, and you, and you ! There's no- 
bodj' honest in the world after to day. We're all scoundrels. 1 dont trust 
myself. Do you axe why ? Yesterday, the best of our Legion, and the 
bravest was John C'hampe. To day — look yonder, and see, John Champe 
aboard a British galley ! Why 1 would not trust my own father, after that !" 

In sdence the band, returned their steps to camp, leading the riderless 
steed by the bridle rein. Lee, soon, discovered the Ailsily of the 
rumor, which announced the Deserter's death. Cornet Middlclon, with 
his handsome lace, covered with chagrin, told the whole story, and in terms 
of sincere anguish, regretted, that he hud not pistolled the Deserter, and 
cursed the hour when he escaped. 

To the utter confusion of the good cornet, Major Henry Lee, burst into 
a roar of laughter. 

He took horse, without delay, and riding to head quarters told the story 
to the Chieftain, who heard it, with a countenance, beaming with smiles. 

Though Champe has basely descried the cause of freedom, his future 
history, is fraught with interest. 

Behold him, standing before Sir Henry Clinton, who delighted to receive 
a deserter from the famed corps of Lee, questions him, with an almost ri- 
diculous minuteness. Yet, the rough soldier, answers all Sir Henry's 
questions, and satisfies him, on various important points. The army were 
tired of Washington. Other Generals were preparing to follow the example 
of Arnold. Neither discipline, nor patriotism could keep the Mob of Mis- 
ter Washington together much longer. The good Sir Henry, was 
delighted wiih the information, and laughed till his fat sides shook, and 
o-ave John Champe three golden guineas. 

The fourth day, after the desertion, Lee received a letter, by the hands 
of a secret messenger, signed, John Cii.\mpe. What did the recreant desire ! 
A pardon, perchance ? 



JOHN CHAMPE. 241 

On tlic 30t!i of September, Cliampe, was appointed one of Arnold's re- 
cruiting sergeants. The traitor Sergeant and the traitor General, were thus 
brought together. That scarlet costume, which they had so often rent and 
haclved in batde, was now their uniform. 

Every day, or so, a secret messenger, in New York, forwarded to Lee, 
certain letters, signed by Champe. Perhaps, he repented of his treason ? 
Or, did he wish to impart information, that might prove the ruin of Wasli- 
ington ? What was the Deserter's object ! 

Behold him now, an elTicient soldier of Arnold's American I/Cgion, 
dressed in a red uiiilbrm, and doing the work of a Briton. Did he never 
think of the old man, even his father, who had bestowed upon him, the 
noble horse, Powhatan ? 

At this time, there was not a home on New York, but morning, noon 
and night, rung with the name of John Andre. 

Would Washington dare to execute him ? Had Sir Henry Clinton 
spared one exertion to save the life of his favorite ! What would be Ar- 
nold's course, in case Andre was put to death as a spy ? 

These questions were often asliod, often answered ; but on the evening 
of the Second of October, a rumor came to town, which lilled every heart 
with joy. 

Andre was to be set free. 

At raidniglit, on the Third of October, a brilliant company thronged the 
lighted halls of an Aristocrat, who was pledged to the cause of " Our Blessed 
King." 

The soft light of tlie chandeliers streamed over the half-bared bosoms of 
some two hundred beautiful women. Their forjns llutlering in silks and 
laces, their necks circled by pearls and jewels, these beautiful dames went 
bounding in the dance. And tlie same light that revealed the lovely women, 
and disclosed the statues, pictures, hangings and ornaments of those brilliant 
saloons, also siione over groups of British officers, young and old, who 
mingled with the fair Americans, or stood in the deep-framed windows, 
talking in low, earnest tones of the fate of John Andre. 

On a luxurious divan, cushioned with dark crimson velvet, with a statue 
of the good King George forming the centre, Sir Henry Clinton reclined, 
surrounded by a crowd of officers, mingled with beautiful women. 

Among those women, there was only one who did not wear tlie tall 
head-gear, in fashion at that time ; a sort of tower, that ladies had agreed 
to carry on their brows, as an elephant carries a castle on his back. 

She stood apart, while in front of her ciuittered a bevy of beauties, whose 
cheeks, rendered surpassingly white by the contrast of patches, were re- 
lieved by their intricately arranged hair. 

Her dark locks gathered plainly back from her brow, fell behind the 
small ears in glossy tresses. The other ladies were clad with a profusion 



848 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

of silks, laces, pearls, jewels. She. so strange in the majestic lovclincs- 
of her dark eyes, so meliing in the warm ripeness of her lips, in the volup- 
tuous fullness of the bosom, stands alone, clad in a while dress tiiat emi- 
nenilv becomes the beauty of her commanding person. 

This is the Heiress of the Aristocrat who gives the festival to-night. 

Do you see her eyes flash, her bosom heave, as those ladies converse 
with Sir Henry Clinton ? 

" Do you think indeed. Sir Henry," lisps a fair haired beauty, " that 
Major Andre will be set free by tiiai odious Wasiiington >." 

" I have no doubt that we will be able to snatch him from the ogre's 
grasp," replies Sir Henry, with a smile, " But to speak seriously, the intel- 
ligence received last night, sets my mind at rest. Andre will be with us in 
a i\ay or so !" 

A murmur of satisfaction thrills through the irroup. 

The Heiress feels her heart bound more freely : glancing towards a large 
mirror she beholds the roses blooming once more upon her cheek. 

" Andre will be free in a day or so!" she murmurs, and suflers a gallant 
otficer to lead her forward in the dance. 

Presently the wide floor — chalked like the mazes of a puzzling garde-, 
is ihronged with d.incers. Such a fluttering of pretty feet over the boards, 
that bound as they seem to feel the value of that beauty which they sustain ! 
Such :i glaneino; of fair necks and white arms in the light. Music too, till- 
ing the air. and making heart and feet and eyes, go leaping together. 

The floor is crowded with dancers; Sir Henry Clinton smiles with de- 
light as he surveys the beautifid prospect. 

And anions all the dangers, tiiat one, with the dark liair and brilliant 
eyes, and voluptuous form, clad in white, most attmcts the eye of Sir 
Henrv, for John Andre had kissed her hand, his arm has encircled het 
waist, his lips felt the magic of her rosy mouth. 

Presentlv an oflicer is seen treadinsr his way through the mazes of the 
(lance. Strange to say, he is not clad in ball costume. He appears in boots 
spattered with mud, while his hard-featured face seeks the form of Sir 
Henry with earnest eves. He comes through the dancers and whispers to 
Sir Henrv Clinton, who says never a word, but hides his face in his 
hands. 

1 cannot tell how it was, but assuredly, the presence of that officer, with 
the hard-featured face and spattered boots, spread a chill through the room. 

One by one the couples left the dance : a circle, gradually deepening 
was formed around Sir Henry : at l.nst, the Heiress and her partner were 
left alone in the centre of the room, pacing a solemn minuet, while lier eyes 
and cheeks and lips smiled in chorus. She was entirely happy : for she 
conversed with her partner about John Andre. 

Presentlv she observed the circle gathered about the British General. 
She turned her gaze and beheld every feature clouded in sorrow. She heard 



JOHN CHAMPE. 243 

no more the light laugh, nor the careless repartee. All was silent around 
the divan, from whose centre arose the statue of the King. 

The Heiress turned to ask the cause of this strange gloom, which had so 
suddenly possessed the place, when a little girl, not more tlian six years 
old, came running to her, spreading forth her tiny hands, and in one breath 
she called the beautiful woman by name, and 

— Spoke a fiual truth, that had just broken on her ears. 

John Andre teas dead. He had been hung that day, about the hour 
of noon. 

Tlie shriek that thrilled through that lighted hall, stopped every heart ia 
its throbbings. 

One shriek, and one only: the Heiress fell, her liair showering about her 
as she lay senseless on the floor. 

So you may have seen a blossoming tree, which has long swayed to and 
fro beneath the blast, suddenly tower erect, eacli leaf quivering gendy, and 
then — torn up by the roots — precipitate itself in ruins on the ground. 

At the same hour, Benedict Arnold was writing in his most secret cham- 
ber, while his brolher-traitor, John Champe, wailed near his chair. 

The shaded lamp spread a circle over Arnold's face and hand, while all 
around was twilight. Champe stood in the shadow behind the back of 
Arnold, his dark visage working with a peculiar expression. 

Arnold was just writing these words, when the door opened 

' If this warning shall be disregarded, and he suffer, I CALL Heaven 

AND EARTH TO WITNESS, THAT YOFR EXCELLENCY WILL BE JUSTLY ANWERA- 
BLE for the TORRENT OF BLOOD THAT MAY BE SPILT IN CONSEQUENCE.' 

" Let them put Andre to death, if they dare ! Thus I wrote to Wash- 
ington yesterday, and now I write it again, so that my soul may never forget 
these words ! If Andre perishes " 

As Arnold spoke, the door opened and a Soldier entered the room— 

" General, Major Andre was put to death at noon to-day !" 

Arnold gazed in the face of the Soldier, with a look of vacant astonish- 
ment. 

" You spoke, I believe ? The next lime you intrude upon my privacy, 
I will thank you to use a litde more form diiy !" 

" Excuse me. General, but this news has set us all a kind o' topsy-turvy !" 

" News ? What news ?" 

" Major Andre was hung to-day at noon." 

Arnold did not speak for five minules. For that space of time, he satin 
the chair, with his eyes fixed on the paper, hut in truth he saw nothing. A 
hazy vapor swam before his sight, the sound of bells was in his ears. When 
he saw clearly again, the stupified soldier stood in the doorway, gazing upon 
the general in awe, for the agitation of that iron face was horrible to behold. 

" How did he die ' — " His voice was hoarse ; he spoke with a great effort. 



244 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

" By the rope, — it nnon — Washington wouldii't allow liitn to be shot." 

As the Traitor tunieii he beheld Ohampe, sealed on a military chest, his 
frame writhiiir; in agony, while his swarthy face was bathed in tears. 

" I thought you were a man — a soldier ! Why, yon weep like a child — " 
Arnold spoke in si-orn, bnt took good care to keep his own eyes from the light. 

" Andre—" was all that Champe conld gasp. 

Arnold pared the room, now folding his arms, now clenching his hands, 
now uttering in a low voice, horrible blasphemies. 

" Champe — " he said, abruptly pausing, as his distorted countenance 
glowed in the light — " They have known me in the Wilderness — yes, at 
(iuebec — at Saratoga ; my sword has been tried, and it has crimsoned its 
blade in victory ! Now — by — " he muttered a horrible oath, " they shall 
know that sword once more, know it as the instrument of vengeance — aye, 
they shall know it as the Avenger of .lohn Andre !" 

'I'errilied, as though he beheld a fiend instead of a man, Champe slowly 
rose to his feet. 

" By the light of their desolate homes, I will olTer victims to the ghost 
of Andre ! Take care, Washington ! Your towns will blaze ! Take 
care — the Traitor Arnold will stand amid heaps of dead bodies, shouting as 
lie plunges his sword into your soldiers' hearts. This and This for John 
Andre ! Traitor — 1 accept the name — I will wear it ! From his hour, 
every tie that bound me to this soil, is torn from my heart ! From this 
hour, in camp and council — by my wrongs, by the death of Andre I swear 
it — I stand the Destroyer of my native land !" 

He turned to Champe, who shrank back from the blaze of his maddened 
eyes. 

" You loved Andre ? Then join swords, and swear with me to avenge 
his death ! Swear to have vengeance upon his Murderer!" 

" I swear to have vengeanre upon the Murderer of John Andre !" said 
Champe, with a meaning einphasis. 

Arnold stood erect, one hand laid upon his sword, while the other up- 
lifted in the awful formality of an oath, attested the deep sincerity of his 
resolve. 

This was on the night of October Third, 1780. 

In the space of time between this night, and midnight of November Se- 
cond, the current of John Champe's life llowed smoothly on, scarcely 
marked by the ripple of an event. 

It was however observable, that in the intervals of his lime, he \yas wont 
to visit the secret messenger, who had conveyed his previous letters to Lee. 

On the 19th of October, he despatched another message to his former 
Commander. Slill his object is shrouded in mystery. What mean these 
communications sent by a Deserter from the cause of freedom, to a re- 
nowned Champion of that cause ? 



JOHN CHAMPE. 245 

Lee invariably showed these letters to Washington. Doubtless they 
viewed with the same spontaneous scorn, these epistles of the Deserter. 

Rumor now crept tlirough New York, and abroad even to the camp of 
Washington, that Arnold was gathering troops for some bandit-enterprize. 

John Champe wlio was a very quiet man, saying little, but observing a 
great deal, followed Arnold like a shadow, obeying his wish before tlie 
Traitor could frame it in words, and making himself familiar with all the 
habits of the great General. 

In the course of his meditations, John impressed four or five facts upon 
his soul. 

The custom of tlie Traitor every night before retiring to rest, was to 
walk in the pleasant garden of his mansion. 

This garden was separated by certain slender palings from a narrow 
alley. The alley led to the river. 

That river could be crossed by a boat at any hour of the night. 

Now, it once struck John, that if these miserable rebels should want to 
carry away Benedict Arnold, nothing was more easy, in case they arranged 
their proceedings in a proper manner. For instance — two or three pal- 
ings might be removed — the Traitor seized some dark night, and gagged — 
placed on the shoulders of two men borne to the river, and across to Hoboken. 
There a party of Lee's dragoons might await his coming, ready to bear 
him away to the camp of Washington. 

At the same time, that John dreamed thus wildly, he also remembered 
that somewhere or other, he had read words like these, signed by Wash- 
ington : 

" Jirnold must he brought to me alive. No circumstance whatever, 
shall obtain my consent to his being put to death. My aim is to make a 
public example of him. 

Washington." 

A strange dream, this ! Let us hope that the Deserter's brain, was not 
affected by his Crime. 

Time passed on. Andre had been dead nearly a month. 

Arnold's preparations for his bandit-deed, excited universal attention. 
No incident ruffled the quiet tenor of the Deserter's life, save that one even- 
ing, toward the close of October, a lady of great beauty and wealth, sent for 
him, and talked earnestly with him for an hour or more, holding at the 
same time in her hand, a miniature of John Andre. 



Our history now returns to the midnight scene, in Arnold's chamber on 
the Second of November. 

The Soldier with the crape over his face, stood in the shadow, silently 
observing these two beautiful women. 

A strange contrast ! 



|4G DENEDICT ARNOLD. 

One, whose years are scarce beyond girlhood, stands as if paralyzed ; her 
[upliAed hand grasping a taper, while the light reveals her form, attired in a 
white robe whose loose folds disclose her bosom — so pnre and stainless — 
her small feet and bared arms. 

The hair whieh falls along lier checks and over her neck and breast, in 
hue resembles 'he llrst mild sunshine of a summer's day. 

The other, rising in queenly stature, her form — more round, more volup- 
tuous, more eomniaiuliiit; in ils outlines — allired in the scarlet coat of a 
British odicer, with cambric rullles fluttering over the virgin breast, military 
boots enveloping the finely formed foot and limb. Her hair showers to her 
shoulders, in dark masses. Her face — whose faint olive tint deepens on 
the warm lips and rounded elieek into bright vermillion — is marked with 
the lines of conflicting passions. 

ller full dark eye pours its light upon the clear blue eye of the woman, 
who shrinks back from her gaze. 

" You here ! In the chamber of my husband !" faltered the Wife — " In 
this guise, too " 

" Here, in the dress of John Andre ! Here to welcome Benedict Arnold, 
in the garb of his victim ! Here, to award justice to the Double Traitor !" 

The strange lady folded her arms, as if to still the throbbings of her 
breast. The Wife stood like one fascinated by a serpent's gaze. 

" Do you remember the days of your girlhood. Madam, when the lliresh- 
hold of your home was crossed by a young soldier, who won all hearts by 
his knightly bearing ? Do you remember him so young, so brave ? His 
heart warmed with all that is noble in man, tlie light of genius flashing 
from his hazel eye ?" 

" O, do not — do not speak of these memories — " gasped the wife of 
Arnold. 

" But I will speak, and you must hear !" was the reply of the proud 
maiden, with the dark eye and scornful lips — " You do remember him ? 
Every body loved him. You can witness that ! For you saw him in his 
young manhood — you surrendered your waist to his arm in the dance — you 
heard that voice, which was at once Music and Poetry ! O, do you re- 
member it all V 

The wife stood like a figure of marble, her blue eyes dilating, her lips 
parting in an expression of speechless horror. 

" Where now is this gallant soldier ? Where now the Hero, whose 
sword flashed so fearlessly in the hour of batUe ? — Wife of Arnold, ask 
your heart — nay, go to the river shore, and ask the sod of that lonely grave ! 
Yes, the hand tiiat pressed yours in the dance, is now the food of the 
grave-worm ! The eye that gleamed so brightly, when your hand dropped 
tlie crown of roses and laurel on the plumed brow, is dark forever !" 

The Wife of Arnold sank on her knees. 

" Spare me !" she cried, lifting her ashy face toward that beautiful wo- 



JOHN CHAMPE. 247 

man, clad in the dress of John Andre — "Do not rend my heart with these 
words — " 

"How died he, the young, the gifted, the brave?" — You see that eye 
dart an ahiiost demoniac fire — " Perchance in battle at the head of legions, 
his good steed beneath him, his true sword in hand ? Yes, charging into 
the thickest of the fight, he fell, his last smile glowing in the sunshine of 
victory ! Or, maybe he perished in some midnight massacre, perished in 
the act of an heroic defence ? No — no — no ! There was no sword in his 
hand when he died. He died — O, does it wring your heart — with the rope 
about his neck, the vacant air beneath his feet. Beguiled into the lines of 
an enemy by a Traitor, he died — not even by bullet or axe — but quivering 
on a gibbet, like a common felon !" 

How like the voice of an Accusing Angel, sent on earth to punish guilt, 
the tones of that dark-haired woman rung through the chamber ! 

" Could I help it ?" faltered the beautiful Wife of Arnold, her face now 
deathly pale — " Did I hurry him to this fat.il death ? Wherefore wring my 
heart with these memories ? Have you no mercy ?" 

" Mercy !" sneered the disguised maiden — " Mercy for the Wife of Ben- 
edict Arnold, who after her marriage suffered her letters to .Tohn Andre, to 
enclose the letters of the Traitor to Sir Henry Clinton ! Ah, droop your 
head upon your bosom, and bury your face in your hands — it is true ! — 
Had you no share in that dark game ? Did you advise Benedict Arnold to 
make John Andre the tool of his Treason ? O, if in your heart there ever 
lurked one throb of love for this noble soldier, how could you see him led 
on to infamy ?" 

That proud virgin, transformed by her dress into a living portrait of John 
Andre, by her passions into an avenging spirit, was now bitterly avenged. 

For the wife of Arnold knelt before her, her face upon her breast, her 
golden hair floating to the knees, which crouched upon the floor. And the 
light revealed the shape of her beautiful shoulders, a glimpse of her 
tumultuous bosom. 

" You ask why I am here ? I, a maiden whose good name no breath 
has ever dimmed, here in the chamber of Arnold ? — I am here, because I 
am a woman, because that love which can never be given twice to man, 
now lies buried with the dead, — here to avenge the murder of that brave 
soldier, who ere he started on his horrible journey, pressed his kiss upon 
my lips, and told me, he would return on the morrow !" 

" How — " sobbed the kneeling woman — " How will you avenge his 
death ? You cannot reach Washington ? 

" But Washington can reach Arnold !" — her voice sinks to a whisper, as 
she repeats these meaning words. A shudder thrilled the kneeling woman. 

" Yes, as Andre died, so Arnold shall die — on the gibbet ! Aye, raise 
your face and gaze on me in wonder. I speak the solemn truth. From 
this chamber, bound and dumb, Arnold shall be led this night. In the dark 



•^8 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

•treet trusty men are waiting for him, even now. That street leads to the 
river — a boat is ready for the traitor, there. On the opposite shore, certain 
brave Americans under the gallant Lee, watch for the coming of the Traitor ! 
Ha, lia ! Washinsion will not sleep to-night — he expects a strange visitor, 
— Ut'ncdict Arnold !" 

As though all life had lied from her veins, the Wife of Arnold glared in 
the face of the dark-iiaired woman. The words of the strange maiden, 
seemed for the moment to deprive her of all power ot speech. 

" It is not so much for myself that I strike this blow ! But the Mother 
of Andre — those innocent sisters who await his return Home — they are 
before me now — they speak to me — they call for vengeance on the Double 
Traitor !" 

. As she spoke, the Soldier with crape about his face advanced a single step, 
his chest heaving with emotion. 

" Yon cannot do this. Deliberately consign to an ignominious death, my 
husband, who never wronged you .'" — The Wife raised her eyes to the face 
of the dark-haired lady, while the lingers of her small hands were locked 
together. 

But there is no mercy in that determined face; not one gleam of pity in 
those brilliant eyes. 

" As I stand attired in the gatb of Andre, so surely will I take vengeance 
on his murderer 1" 

The Wife of Arnold made no reply. Bowing her face low upon her 
bosom, with her loosened robe slowly falling from her shoulders, she 
crouched on the floor, her luxuriant hair twining about her uncovered arms. 

The dark-haired woman beheld her agony, heard the sobs which con- 
vulsed her form, aye, heard the groan which the Soldier uttered as he wit- 
nessed this strange scene, yet still she stood erect, her unrelenting eye fixed 
in a steady g-aze. upon her victim's form. 

" If the plot fails, this dagger will do the work of my revenge !" 

The word has not gone from her lips, when the Soldier approaches — 
whispers — vou see the determined woman start — change color and sink 
helplessly into the chair. 

•' Does the liend protect him ?" she gasps, in a voice utterly changed 
from her tone of triumphant resolve. 

II Yes — this very night, he sails for the coast of Virginia," the Soldier 
whispers — " This night, selected for our purpose, has by some strange 
chance, torn him from our grasp. Already on ship-board, he plans the 
destruction of American towns, the murder of American freemen !" 

You see the Wife of Arnold start to her feel, her blue eye gleaming, 
while with her upraisetl arm she dashes back from her face those locks of 
golden hair. 

•' He is saved ! Thank heaven your schemes are foiled. The angels 
need not weep, to behold another scene of murder !" 



JOHN CHAMPE. 249 

For she loved him, her Warrior-husband, that Wife of Arnold ; and now, 
with her entire frame quivering with a joy which was more intense, from 
the re-action of her despair, she belield the schemes of her enemies crushed 
in a moment. 

" The angels need not weep to behold another scene of murder ?'' spoke 
the deep voice of the Soldier, who stood with his face veiled in crape ; 
" And yet the Bandit and Traitor, who betrayed Washington, and left 
Andre to perish on the gibbet, is now unloosed like a savage beast, on the 
homes of Virginia !" 

The tone in which he spoke, rung with the hollow intonation of scorn. 

•' Who are you ? Attired in the garb of a British soldier, with a rebel 
coat beneath ?" 

Even that Wife, felt a throb of pity as she heard the sad voice of this 
unknown soldier. 

" I have no name ! I had once^was once a brave soldier — so they said. 
But now, the Americans never speak of me, but to curse my name, in the 
same breath with Arnold !" 

He slowly retired toward the window : standing among the heavy cur- 
tains, he beheld the conclusion of this dark scene. 

The woman attired in the dress of Andre slowly rose. The Wife shrank 
back appalled, from the setded frenzy of her face, the sublime despair 
stamped upon her features and flashing from her eyes. 

" It is well ! Arnold escapes the hand of vengeance now. Now, flushed 
with triumph, he goes on to complete his career of blood. He will gather 
gold — renown, aye, favor from the hands of his King. But in the hour of 
his proudest triumph, even when he stands beside the Throne, one form, 
invisible to all other eyes, will glide through the thronging courtiers, and 
wither him, with its pale face, its white neck polluted by the gibbet's rope, 
its livid lip trembling with a muttered curse — the Phantom of John Andre ! 
That Phantom will poison his life, haunt him in the street, set by him at 
the table — yes, follow him to the couch ! As he presses his wife to his 
lips, that pale face will glide between, muttering still that soundless curse. 

" To escape this Phantom, he will hurry from place to place ! Now in 
the snows of Canada, now amid the palm groves of the Southern Isles, now 
on ship-board, now on shore — still John Andre's ghost will silendy glide 
by his side. 

" That Phantom will work for him, a Remorse more terrible than mad- 
ness ! It will glide into men's hearts, enrage their souls against the Traitor, 
teach their lip the mocking word, their finger the quivering gesture of scorn. 
As the Traitor goes to receive his Royal Master's reward, he will hear a 
thousand tongues whisper. Traitor ! Traitor ! Traitor ! He will turn to 
crush the authors of the scorn — turn and find, that the sword which may 
hew a path through dead men, cannot combat the calm contempt of a 
World ! 



/ 



250 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

" Scorned by the men who bought him — his children and liis wife all 
swept away — he will stand a lonely column on a blasted desert. He will 
be known as tlie Thaitok Arnold. As the General who sold immortal 
glory for twenty thousand guineas. As the Traitor who left John Andre to 
perish on the gibbet. As the Man who has not one friend in the 

WORLD. 

" And when he dies ; behold the scene ! No wife, no child ! Not even 
a doij to howl above his grave ! 

" Yes, when he dies — while the Phantom of Andre glides to his side — no 
hand of friend or foe shall be placed upon his brow, no one shall wait by 
his couch, no voice speak to him of Heaven or Hope, but in the utter deso- 
lation of a Blighted heart and a Doomed Name, shall depart the soul of the 
Traitor, Benedict Arnold I" 



The scene of War was changed. The South was given up to the torch 
and sword. 

In Virginia, Cornwallis superintended the murders of the British, and 
won his title, the Amiable, by a series of bloody outrages. Arnold, the 
Traitor was there also, heading his band of Assassins. In the Carolinas 
Lord Rawdon, lliat noble gentleman, who hung an innocent man in tlie 
presence of a son, in order to terrify the Rebels, carried the Red Flag of 
England at the head of a mingled crowd of Tories and Hirelings. 

It was on the day when tlie glorious Nathaniel Greene, passed the Con- 
garee in pursuit of Lord Rawdon, that the Legion of Lee pitched their tents 
for tlie night, where tlie trees of a magnificent wood encircled a refreshing 
glade of greenest moss. 

Through the intervals of those trees — crowning the summit of a high 
hill — many a glimpse was obtained of the wide-spreading country, with 
arms gleaming from the trees, and ilie Congaree, winding in light until it 
was lost in the far distance. 

The soldiers of the Legion were scattered along the glade, with the tops 
of their tents glowing in the warm light of tlie evening sun. You may see 
their horses turned loose on llie green sward, while the brave men prepare 
their evening meal, and the sentinels pace the hillside, beyond these trees. 

In front of the central tent, seated on a camp stool, his elbow on his 
knee, his swarthy cheek resting in the palm of his hand, you behold the 
brave Lee, -his helmet thrown aside, his green coat unfastened at the throaL 
That sudden gush of sunlight, Ailling over his swarthy face, reveals the 
traces of strong emotion. Yes, Lee is sad, although they have gained a 
victory, sad, although he has been rewarded with the rank of Lieutenant 
Colonel, sad, although his men love him like a brother, and would give their 
lives to him. 

Suddenly a wild murmur was heard, and two dragoons are seen advan- 
cing with a prisoner, led between their steeds. As tliey ride toward Colo- 



JOHN CHAMPE. 251 

nel Lee, the entire Legion come running to the scene : on every side, you 
behold men starting up from an untasted meal, and hurrying toward the 
tent of their leader. 

A miserable prisoner ! 

Every eye beliolds him. Pale, hollow-eyed, his flesh torn by briars, his 
form worn by famine, and clad in wretched rags, he is led forward. All 
at once, the murmur swells into a shout, and then a thousand curses rend 
the air. 

" Colonel — " the discordant cries mingled in chorus — " Behold him ! 
The next tree, a short prayer, and a strong cord for the traitor ! Colonel — 
here is our deserter — the Sergeant Major ! It is Champe !" 

Utterly absorbed in his thoughts, Lee had not observed tiie approach of 
the dragoons. His eyes fi.ved upon the ground, he grasped his cheek in 
the eflbrt to endure his bitter thoughts. Yet at the word " Champe !" 
spoken with curses, he raised his head and sprang to his feet. 

" Where ?" he cried ; his wliole manner changing with the rapidity of 
lightning. His eyes encountered the strange hollow gaze of the Prisoner, 
who stood silent and miserable, amid the crowd of angry faces. 

" To the next tree with the traitor ! Ah, scoundrel, you would disgrace 
the Legion, would you ! Champe the Deserter !" 

The uproar grew tumultuous; it seemed as though the brave soldiers 
were about to transgress the bounds of discipline, and take the law in their 
own hands. 

Lee gazed steadfastly upon the prisoner, who pale and emaciated, re- 
lumed iiis look. Then, starling forward, his fiice betraying deep emotion, 
he exclaimed : 

" Is this indeed John Champe ?" — lie was so wretchedly changed. 

The silence of the poor wretch gave assent, while the dragoon stated that 
they had taken him prisoner, as he was making his way toward the camp. 

Lee manifested his opinion of the recreant and deserter, by an expressive 
action and a few decided words. Suddenly that group of soldiers became 
as silent as a baby's slumber. 

The action ! He took Champe by the hand, and wrung it, while the 
tears came to his eyes. The words : 

" Welcome nACK to the Legion, brave and honest .man !" 

Those iron Legionists stood horror-stricken and dumb, while the reply 
of the prisoner increased their dismay : 

"Colonel, I am back at last!" he said, returning the pressure of Lee's 
hand, and while the large tears streamed down liis face, he whispered with 
the Colonel. 

" My comrades," exclaimed Lee, as he took Champe by the hand and 
surveyed the confounded crowd — "There was a time when General AVash- 
ington appealed to the Commander of a body of brave men, and asked him, 
whether in his corps there could be found one man, willing to dare dishonor 



/ 



252 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

and (leatli, in tiie cause of Humanity and Justice ! He wished to save Jotm 
Andre by taking Benedict Arnold prisoner. In order to accomplisli this, it 
would be necessary to find a man who would desert to the enemy — desert, 
pursued by his indignant comrades, desert in the sight of the British, and 
take refuge in their ranks. This man was found. After a bitter struggle, — 
for he could not make up his mind to endure liis comrades scorn— he de« 
serled, and barely escaped witli his life. Once in New York, he enlisted 
in the Legion of Arnold. While he was making his preparations for the 
capture of the Traitor, Andre was hung. This wrung tlie Deserter to the 
heart, for his great reason for undertaking this work, was the salvation of 
Andre's life. One object remained — the capture of Arnold. After the lapse 
of a month, everything was arranged. You remember the night when a 
detachment of our Legion watched until day, in the shades of Hoboken ? 
The traitor was to be seized in his garden, tied and gagged, hurried to the 
boat, then across the river into our clutches. But we wailed in vain, the 
plot was foiled ! That night Arnold went on ship-board, and with him the 
Deserter, who, taken to Virginia, left the British at the first opportunity, 
and after weeks of wandering and starvation, returned to his comrades. 
Wliat think ye of this Deserter ? This Hero, who dared what the soldier 
fears more than a thousand deaths — the dishonor of desertion — in order 
to save the lite of John Andre ? In short, my comrades, what think you 
of this brave and good man, John Ciiami'k !" 

No sound was heard. At least an hundred forms stood paralyzed and 
motionless ; at least, an hundred hearts beat high with emotions, as strange 
as they were indefinable. Not an eye but was wet with tears. When 
iron men like these shed tears, there is somelliing in it. 

At last, advancing one by one, they took Champe by the hand, and with- 
out a word, gave him a brother's silent grasp. There was one old war-dog, 
terribly battered with cuts and scars, who came slowly forward, and looked 
him in the face, and took both hands in liis own, exclaiming, in his rough 
way, as he quivered between tears and laughter — " Have nt you got another 
hand, John ?"' 

It was the Veteran, who from the sliore of Manhattan Bay, had taken 
aim at tiie head of tiic deserter Champe. 

" This moment," said Champe, his voice husky with suflfocating emotion, 
" This moment pays me for all I've suffered !" 

Never in the course of the Revolution, did the sun go down upon a scene 
so beautiful ! 

The trees encircling the sward, with the horses of the legion tied among 
their leaves. The scattered trnis, and the deserted tires. The prospect 
of the distant country, seen between the trees, all shadow and gold. The 
tent of Lee, surrounded by that crowd of brave men, every eye centred 
upon that ragged form, with the hollow cheek and sunken eyes. 



THE TEMPTATION OF SIR HENRY CLINTON, 253 

Lee himself, gazing with undisguised emotion upon that face, now red- 
dened by the sunset glow, the visage of John Charape, the Deserter. 

Nothing was wanting to complete the joy of the hero — yes, there was 
one form absent. But, hark ! A crash in yonder thicket, a dark horse 
bounds along the sod, and neighing wildly, lays his neck against his master's 
breast. 

It was Powhatan. 



You may imagine the scene which took place, when Champe mounted 
on Powhatan, rode to meet Washington ! 

After many years had passed, when Washington was called from the 
shades of Mount Vernon, to defend his country once again, he sent a Cap- 
tain's commission to Lee, with the request that he would seek out Charape, 
and present it to him. 

The letter received by the American Chief, in answer, contained these 
words : 

— ' Soon after the war, the gallant soldier removed to Kentucky. There 
he died. Though no momiment toivers above his bones — we do not even 
hnoiu his resting place — every true soldier must confess, that the history 
of the Revohition does not record a nobler name than — 

John Champe. 

xviii.— the temptation of sir henry clinton. 

One more scene from the sad drama of Andre's fate ! 

On a calm autumnal evening — the last day of September, 1780 — Sir 
Henry Clinton sat in his luxurious chamber, in the city of New York, 
pondering over matters of deep interest. 

The wine stood untasted in the goblet by his side, as reposing in the 
arm-chair, by yonder window, with his hands joined across his chest, he 
fixed his eye vacantly upon the rich carpet beneath his feet. 

There was every display of luxury in that chamber. High ceiling and 
lofty walls, hung with pictures, carpets on the floor that gave no echo to 
tlie footfall, furniture of dark mahogany polished like a mirror, silken 
curtains along the windows, and a statue of his Majesty, George the 
Tliird, in the background. 

The view which stretched before that window was magnificent. The 
wide expanse of Manhattan Bay, dotted with islands, and white with the 
sails of ships of war — the distant shore of Staten Island and Jersey — the 
clear sky — piled up in the west, with heavy clouds, tinged and mellowed 
with all the glories of an autumnal sunset; this was a lovely view, but Sir 
Henry Clinton saw it not. 

His thoughts were with a letter which lay lialf open beside the untasted 

30 



/ 



S54 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

goblet of rich old wine, and iliat letter bore the signature of Geoi^ge 
Washington. 

Kow, as some persons are always forming wrong ideas of the personal 
appearance of great men, 1 ask you to look closely upon the face and form 
of yonder General. His form is short, and heavy almost to corpulence ; 
his face round, full and good-humored ; his red coat glittering with epau> 
leties, thrown open in front, disclosed the bufl" vest, with ample skirls, and 
the snowy whiteness of his cambric bosom, across whose delicate rutlles 
his hands were folded. He wore polished boots reaching above the knee, 
where his large limb was cased in buckskin. His sword lay on the table 
by his side, near the letter and goblet. 

Sir Henry had been sitting in this position for an hour, thinking over tlie 
ONE TOPIC that occupied his whole soul ; bnt strange it was, which ever 
way he tried to turn his thoughts, he still saw the same picture. It was 
the picture of a wan-faced moihcr, who sat in her lonely room, with a fair 
daughter on eidier side, all wailing for the son and brother to come home 
and he ^ 

Sir Henry dared not finish the picture. He was afraid when he thought 
of it. And yet the Picture had been there before him, for an hour — there, 
on tlie space between his eye and the western sky. 

Suddenly his reverie was interrupted by the low tread of a footstep. 
Sir Henry looked up, and beheld a man of harsh features, arrayed in a 
Colonel's uniform. 

The Colonel was a singidar character. Harsh in features, with a 
bronzed skin, long nose, thin lips — his character w.is moody, reserved and 
misanthropic. He was attached to the General's stall", and yet he had no 
associates. He never spoke except in monosyllables. Sir Henry had a 
high regard for his military knowledge, as well as an admiration for his 
blunt, soldierly bearing ; so he spoke to him kindly, and invited him to be 
seated. 

The Colonel sat down in the opposite recess of tlie broad window, with 
his back to the light. 

" So, John Andre is to be — hung?'' uttered the Colonel, in a quiet, un- 
concerned tone. 

Sir Henry moved nervously in his seat. 

" Why — why — the fact is," said he, hesitatingly. " this letter from 
Washington states tliat he has been tried as a spy, and will be han-red to- 
morrow morning as a spy." 

A shade of gloom passed over Sir Henry's face. He bit his lip, and 
pressed his hand violently against his forehead. 

" Very unpleasant," said the Colonel, carelessly. '• Hanged I Did you 
say so, General ? And he had such a white neck — heigh-ho !" 

Sir Henry looked at the Colonel as though he could have stabbed him to 
the heart. He said nothing, however, but crumpled Washington's letter in 



I 



THE TEMPTATION OF SIR HENRY CLINTON. 265 

his liand. He knew one trait of the Colonel ; when he appeared most 
careless and unconcerned, he was most serious. 

" So, they '11 take him out in a horrid old cart," said lie, languidly — "a 
cart that'll go jolt ! jolt ! jolt ! With a iiideous hangman, too — and a pine 
box — fough ! I say, General, who would have guessed it, this time last 
week?" 

Sir Harry said not a word. 

" Will it not be unpleasant, when your Excellency returns home ? To 
wait upon the Major's mother and sisters, and tell them, when they ask 
you where he is, that he was — hnng .'" 

Sir Henry Clinton grew purple in the face. He was seized widi deadly 
anger. Kising in his seat, he extended his hand toward the Colonel— 

" Zounds ! sir, what do you mean 1 The man who can make a jest of 
a matter like this, has no sympathy — " 

'• For the General who will calmly consign one of his bravest officers to 
the gallows !" interrupted the sardonic Colonel. 

Sir Henry now grew pale ; the audacity of his inferior awed him. 

" Do you mean to say, that I consign John Andre to the gallows ?" he 
said, in a low voice, that quivered with suppressed rage. 

" I do !" coolly responded the Colonel. 

" Will you be pleased to inform me in what manner I am guilty in your 
eyes ?" continued the General, in the same ominous tone. 

" You can save John Andre, but will not !" 

" How can I save him ?" 

" This Rebel Wasiiingion does not so much care about hanging Andre, 
as he does for making an example of — somebody. You give up that — 
somebody — and he will deliver Andre, safe and sound, into your hands." 

Had a thunderbolt splintered the floor at Sir Henry's feet, his face could 
not have displayed sucli a conflict of wonder and alarm as it did now. He 
looked anxiously around the room, as though he feared the presence of a 
third person, who might overhear the deliberate expression of the Colonel. 

" That — so.MKUODY — I met just now in Broadway. What a splendid red 
coat he wears ! How well it becomes him, too ! Don't you think he feels 
a little odd ?" 

Sir Henry rose from his seal, and paced hurriedly up and down the 
room. Now he was gone into shadows, and now he came forth into light 
again. 

At last he approached the Colonel, and bending down, so that their faces 
nearly touched, uttered these words in a whisper: 

" Give up Benedict Arnold for John Andre — is that what you mean ?" 
"It is !" and the Colonel looked up into the flushed face of his superior. 

" Pshaw ! This is nonsense ! Washington would never entertain such 
a proposition," muttered Sir Henrj\ 

The answer from the Colonel was deep-toned, clear, and deliberate. 



85tf BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

" Your Excellency will pardon my rudeness. I am a rough soldier, but 
I have a heart. I'll be frank with you. The fate of this Andre fills me 
with liorror. He is a good fellow, though he does paint pictures, and 
write rhymes, and act plays, and do other things beneath the dignity of a 
soldier. But he has a soul, your Excellency, he has a heart. I would 
peril ray life to save him. I can't help thinking of his mother and sisters 
in England — he is their only dependence, and — 

" Well, Colonel, well" — interrupted Sir Henry. 

" An officer from Washington waits in the room below, with authority 
from his General to make this proposition to you — Give me Arnold and I 
will give you Andre !" 

Sir Henry Clinton fell back in his seat as though a shot had pierced his 
breast. He said not a word, but as if stupefied by this proposition, folded 
his hands across his breast, and gazed vacantly upon the sunset sky. 

The last gleam of twilight fell over the broad expanse of Manhattan Bay. 
All was silent in the chamber, save the hard, deep breathing of Sir Henry 
Clinton, who, with his head inclined to one side, still gazed upon the west- 
ern sky, with tjiat same vacant stare. 

At last two liveried servants entered, and placed ligiUed candles on the 
table. 

The Colonel started wlien he beheld the strange paleness of Sir Henry's 
countenance. He was terribly agitated, for his lips were compressed, his 
brows contracted, his hands pressed fi.xedly against his breast. 

At last he spoke. His voice was strangely changed from his usual bold 
and hearty tones. 

" Had George fVashington offered me the Throne of Ihe JVeslem Cotv- 
tinent, he could not have so tempted me, as he does by this proposition, to 
exchange Jlrnold for Andre .'" 

" Exchange them," growled the Colonel. 

" But what will the world — what will my King say ? It would be a 
breach of confidence, a violation of a soldier's honor — it would ia 
fact, be " 

" An easy method of rescuing the white neck of John Andre from the 
gibbet !" coolly interrupted the Colonel. 

This was a hard thrust. Sir Henry was silent for a moment ; but that 
moment passed, he flung his clenclied hand on the table. 

" I am tempted, horribly tempted !" he exclaimed, in broken tones. " I 
never was so tempted in my life. Speak of it no more, sir, speak of it no 
more ! Did you say tliat the rebel officer waited below ?',' 

" General, shall I call him up ?" whispered the Colonel, fixing his eyes 
firmly on Clinton's face. 

Sir Henry did not reply. The Colonel arose and moved towards the 
door, when he was met by an oflicer attired in a rich scarlet uniform, who 



I 



THE SISTERS. 257 

came a.ong the carpet with an easy stride, somewhat lessened in dignity by 
a perceptible lameness. 

The Colonel started as though a serpent had stung him. 

For in that officer with the rich scarlet uniform, glittering with epaulettes 
of gold — in that officer with the bold countenance, and forehead projecting 
over dark eyes that emitted a steady glare, he recognized — Benedict Arnold. 

" Good evening, Colonel !" said Arnold, with a slight inclination of his 
head. 

" Good evening. Colonel Arnold!" at last responded the Colonel, with a 
slight yet meaning intonation of scorn. " I never observed it before, but — 
excuse me — you limp in the right leg ? Where did you receive the 
wound ?" 

It waft not often that Arnold blushed, but now his throat, his cheeks, and 
brow were scarlet. For a moment he seemed stricken into stone, but at 
last he replied in a deep sonorous voice, that started Sir Henry Clinton 
from his chair : 

" That leg sir, was twice broken ; the first time, when I stormed Quebec. 
The second time, at Saratoga, when I took the last fortress of Burgoyne ! 
— Are you answered, sir ?" 

Without a word more, leaving the astonished officer to remember the 
glare of his eye, he passed on, and saluted Sir Henry Clinton with a 
deep bow. 

Sir Henry received him with a formal bow, waving his hand toward the 
chair, in the recess of the window. Arnold sat down, and crossing his legs 
in a careless position, fixed his dark eyes full in Clinton's face, as he spoke 
in a laughing tone : 

" Do you know, General, I heard a very clever thing as I passed along 
the street. Two of our soldiers were conversing ; — ' I tell you what it is,' 
said one of the fellows to the other, ' Sir Henry Clinton couldn't do a bet- 
ter thing, than send this Arnold — (ha ! ha ! this Arnold, mark you !) to 
General Washington, who will very likely hang him in place of Andre !' 
Wasn't it clever, General 1 By the bye, this evening air is very cool." 

Sir Henry saw the sneer on Arnold's face, and knew at once that An- 
dre's fate was sealed .' 

XIX.— THE SISTERS. 

It was a flower garden, watered by a spring that bubbled up from yellow 
sands. 

It was a flower garden, environed by a wall of dark grey stone, over- 
shadowed with vines and roses. 

It was a flower garden, standing in the centre of a wood, whose leaves 
blushed like the rainbovs', with the dyes of autumn. 

Yonder rises the mansion, something between a stately dwelling and a 
quiet cottage in appearance, you see its steep roof, its grotesque chimneys. 



f 



258 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

the porcli before the iloor, supported by oaken pillows wreathed with 
vines. 

A dear retreat, this place of fragrant beds, and winding walks, of orchard 
trees heavy with fruit, and llowers blooming into decay, trembling with 
perfume ere llicv die. 

It was that calm hour, when clouds hasten to the west, and range them* 
selves in the patli of the setting sun, as though anxious to receive the kiss 
of their r,or(l, cie he sank to rest. It was that beautiful moment, when tlie 
tree tops look like pyramids of gold, and sky resembles a dome of living 
flame, with a blush of glory pervading its cope, from the zenith to the hori- 
zon. It was the close of one of those delicious days in autumn, when we 
love to bury ourselves in the recesses of brown woods, and think of the 
friends that are gone, when it is our calm delight to wander through long 
vistas of overarching trees, treading softly over the sward, and give our souls 
to memories of love, or dwell sadly and yet tenderly upon the grave which 
awaits us, when the play of life is over. 

In the centre of the garden there grow four apple trees, their gnarled 
limbs twining together, while their fruit of various colors glowed hi the rosy 
light. Beneath the shade and fruitage of these trees, a rugged bench, formed 
with plain brant-hes of oak twisted in various fantastic forms, was placed, 
presenting a delightful retreat amid the recesses of that rustic garden. 

Just as you may have seen, two flowers, alike beautiful, yet contrasted 
in their style of loveliness, swaying side by side in the summer breeze, 
their varied tints aflbrding a picture of never-ending freshness, so two beau- 
tiful girls bloomed side by side, in that quiet recess. 

Their faces are turned toward the evening light, as they feel the deep 
serenity of that hour. One, a delicate, fragile thing, with skin almost si>- 
pernaturally fair, eyes blue as an Italian sky, hair like threaded gold, lays 
her hand upon her sister's shoulder, and nestles gently to her side. 

Younor Alice ! A tender flower, that has just ripened from the bud, with 
the dew yet fresh upon its petals. 

The other, a warm figure, ripened into perfect womanhood, her breast 
rounded, her small feet and hands in strong contrast with the blooming full- 
ness of her shape. Her brown hair, that falls back from her white neck in 
glossy masses, — here, dark as a raven's wing, there, waving in bright ches- 
nut hues — aft'ords a fresh beauty to her boldly chisseled face, whose lips 
are red with mature ripeness. Her deep grey eyes, the clearly defined 
brows and impressive forehead, combine in an expression of intellectual beauty. 

Womanly Mary ! A moss rose, blooming its last hour of freshness, its 
leaves crimsoning with all the beauty ihey can ever know. 

On her full bosom tiie head of the younger Sister was laid, among her 
brown tresses, the flaxen locks of her sister wandered, like sunshine rays 
among twilight shadows. 

" It is so sweet, at this still hour, Mary, to think of him ! To remember 



THE SISTERS. 259 

how he looked, and what he said, when last we saw him — to count the 
days, yes, the moments that must elapse before he will return to us !" 

Thus spoke tiic young sister, her eye gleaming in moisture, but the elder 
felt her face flush, and her eye brighten, as these words came impetuously 
from her lips : 

" But sweeter far, Alice, to think how proud, how noble he will look, 
when he stands before us, so like a hero, with the star upon his breast, the 
warrior's robe upon his form ! To think of him, not coming back to us as 
he departed, an humble Cadet, but a titled General, welcomed by the favor 
of his king, the applauee of his countrymen ! — His last letters speak of his 
certain ascent to fame. Even now, he is engaged upon a deed — whose 
nature he does not rcveal-^that will cause his name to burst in glory on his 
country's fame !" 

Sisterly love — pure and child-like — spoke in the words of the first. 
Sisterly love, tender yet impetuous with ambition, rung in the strong tones 
of the other. 

" And Mother, O, how glad she will be ! We shall all feel so happy, 
and — " The younger Sister started, for she heard a step. With one as- 
sent, they turned their eyes and beheld a widowed woman, with her silver 
hair laid back from a mild and beaming face, come slowly along the garden 
walk. 

It was their Mother. They rose and greeted her, and in their different 
ways, told their young hopes and fears. 

She sat between tliem on the garden bench, each small hand on which 
were marked the lines of time, laid upon a daughter's head. 

" How strange it is, that we have had no letters for a month ! Not a 
word from your brother, my children ! Perhaps, since we have retired to 
this quiet cottage, near a secluded country town, the letters miss us. Come, 
girls — it is a pleasant evening, let us walk in the woods !" 

Taking their soft hands within her own, the Mother beside her daughters, 
looked like a beautiful flower, whose young freshness has been but faintly 
preserved in the leaves of Time's volume, contrasted with the young love- 
liness of ungathered blossoms. 

She led the way toward the garden gate. Along this narrow path, where 
the thicket stored with berries, blooms in evergreen freshness, into the dim 
woods, where there is a carpet of soft moss, filled with sunshine and 
shadows. 

They strolled along, the younger sister now stooping to pluck a wild 
flower as gay as herself, the other talking earnestly to her mother of the 
absent Soldier. 

" Don't you remember. Mother, how a month ago, when we were work- 
ing together, at our embroidery, I thought I heard my brother's step, and 
went to the door to greet him ? I am sure I heard his step, and yet it was 
all a fancy !" 



200 BENEDICT ARNOLft. 

As the Sister Alice spoke, in a tone full of laughing gaiety, Mary changed 
color ami leaned upon her mother's shoulder, lier breast throbbing violently 
againt her dark habit. 

The Moilicr looked upon her with unfeigned alarm : 

" You are ill, Mary, and yet the evening air is by no means unpleasant," 
she said. 

" It was the Second of October !" she whispered, as tliough thinking 
aloud. 

"How canyon remember dates?" said Alice, laughing : "I'm sure 1 
can remember anything but dates. You know, Mary, when I read my 
history at soliool. 1 always jumbled Henry tlie Eighth and Julius C.Tsar 
together !" 

" It happened to fix itself upon my memory," replied Mary, raising her 
face and walking statelily onward again. " That sudden faintness is past : I 
am ijiiile well now," t;he said, passing her hand ligluly over her brow. 

" O, I remember — " said the Mother, in a careless toue. " On that day, 
even as Alice hurried to the door, expecting to greet her brother's lcy:m, you 
swooned away. You remember it, on account of your swoon ? Now that 
I call the circumstance to mind, I recollect, the old dock siruck twelve, as 
you fainted." 

" Twelve o'clock — the Second of October !" faltered the pale Mary, as 
tlic remembrance of the siransje hallucination which possessed her, on that 
day and hour, iVeczing her blood and darkening her reason, came to her 
soul with redoubled force. 

The Vision that she saw, silling in that quiet chamber, she dared never 
tell, it was so strange, so like a nighimare, pressing its beak into her virgin 
breast, and drinking slowly the life-blood from her heart. 

They wandered on, .Mice tripping gaily over the sod, the Mother con- 
versing cheerluUv, even Mary telt her heart bound, in the deep serenity of 
that evening hour. 

There was a nook in that wild wood, where the bank shelved down and 
the trees stood apart, forming a circle around an ancient pile of stones, over 
whose moss-covored forms bubbled a fountain of clear cold water. Above 
tlie fountain arose a form of wood, overgrown with vines, and leaning for- 
ward. It was a Cross, planted three hundred years belbre, when these 
lands belonged to a .Monastery, and tlie Old Religion dwelt on die soil. 

The Mother and her Paiigluers approached, and started back willi wonder. 

A rude form, clad in tattered garments, crouched on the sod beside the 
fountain. His war-worn face was laid against the bank, while his unshaven 
beard, white as snow, gleamed in the light. His coat, which had once been 
bright scarlet, betrayed the old soldier. There was dust upon his gaiters, 
and his much worn shoes could scarce conceal his galled feet. 

As he slept he grasped his staff, and thrust one hand within the bre.ist 
of his coat. His slumber was disturbed: he seemed laboring under the 



THE SISTERS. 261 

fears and hopes of some luniiiUuoiis dream. Suddenly, starting to his feet, 
villi a horriljle ery. he gazed wildlv roiiiul, aud trembled, wiiile the clammy 
moisture stood in beads upon his brow. 

'Who are j'ou ? Bank! You shall not kill me!" he cried, and put 
himself ill an attitude of defence. 

" It is the old Soldier, who went with my Son to the wars !" cried the 
Mother — " Abet, don't you know ns .'" 

The etVcci of his dream passed away, and the aged Soldier advanced, his 
hard hand pressed by tlie warm fingers of the young girls. As he stood 
before thcni, his eves seemed to avoid their gaze — now downcast — now 
wandering on cither side — liis sunburnt face was flushed with a warm 
glow. 

" Speak ! Our Brother !" faltered the girls. 

" i\[y Son '. You bear a message from him ?" exclaimed the Mother. 
Tiie old Soldier was silent. 

'• Your Son ? You mean my Master — eh .' The Major — " he hesitated. 
" Why have you returned home ? Is the war over?" exclaimed Marv. 
" Ah — Brother is un his wav home — he will be here presently — what a- 
deliuhtRd surprise !" cried Alice. 

Still tlie Soldier stood silent and contused, his hands pressed together, 
while his douncast eyes wandered over the sod. 

" My goodness, ladies — " he muttered — " Haven't you received a letter? 
Sir Henry wrote to you, Ma'am, and — " 

" Sir Henry write to me ?" echoed the Mother, her face growing deathly 
jiale — " Why did not my son write himself.'" 

And the sisters, laid each of them, a hand on the veteran's arm and looked 
up eagerly into his rough visage. 

His nether lip quivered ; his eyes rolled strangely in their sockets. He 
endeavored to s|)cak hut there was a choking sensation in his throat; all 
the blood in his tVame seemed rushing to his eyes. 

" I can't tell it ! God help me and forgiv' my sins, I aint strong enough 
to tell it ! Ladies, can't you guess — you see — the Major — " 

Through the gathering gloom of twilisiht, the Mother looked and beheld 
his emotion, and felt her soul palzied by a terrible fear. You may see 
Alice, stand there, gazing on the soldier with surprise ; Mary, that stately 
sister, is by her side, her face white as a shroud. 

They stood like tigures of stone placed in the midst of the wood, widi 
the moss beneath, and the autumnal leaves above. The sound of the foun- 
tain gurgling over the grey rocks alone disturbed the silence of the air. 
The blurt" old veteran stumbled forward, and fell on his knees. 
" Look ye, — I'm rough — I aint afraid of man or devil, but I'm afraid 

now ! Don't force me to speak it " 

Adown that sunburnt face, slowly trickled two large and scalding tears. 
You see the JMother, her face nianifesthig sudden traces of that agony, 

31 



268 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

wliiul) now coiiirs niili overwhelming force, and lakes her soul by storm, 
you see licr ;ulv;iiu-c and take tlic vi-teran by the haiul. 

" Rise, iViciul Abi'l !" she said, in a voice of unnaUiral calmness. " I 
know your message. My son is dead." 

'J'he Soldier bowed his lu^ad and gave free vent to his tears. 

Alice liears that word, and sluinlis toward yonder tree, her eyes covered 
in a straiii;e mist, her iieart suddenly palsied in its beatings. The Mother 
stands as culm, as pale as a corse. 

Mary alunc advances, gasps these words as with tlie last eR'ort of her 
life— 

" He died in battle — at the licad of liis men — Speak ! A soldier's 
death " 

Transformed in every nerve, she quivered before him, her fingers clutch- 
ing his iron arms, her eyes (lashing a death-like glare into his face. Her 
falling hair sweeping back from lier face, completed that picture of a sinless 
maiden, treml)ling on llie verge of madness. 

The old Soldier looked up and answered her: 

"He died on the Second of October, al the hournf twelve — on the Gibbet 
— as a spy." 

These words, in a hollow yet deliberate voice, he slowly uttered, and ihe 
Mollier and the Sisters heard it all ! Heard it, and could not, at the mo- 
ment, die ! 

God pity them, in this their fearful hour. 

The Mother sank on her knees. Alice, the fair-haired and gende, tottered 
and fell, as ihouoli her life had passed with that long and quivering shriek. 

The rough soldier wept aloud. 

Mary, alone, stood erect: her pale coiuilenance thrown into strong relief 
by her dark llowing hair, her eyes glassy, her lips livid, her form towering 
in luarble-like majesty. 

And as she stood — as though suddenly frozen into marble — her eyes 
were fixed upon the heavens, visible through the intervals of the forest trees. 

The last llnsli of sunset had died, and the first star came twinkling out 
on the blue walls of space. 

Only one expression passed her lips. Stilling the horrible agony of tliat 
moment, she (ixcd her eyes upon tiiat light in heaven, and said — 

" It is my brother's star !" 

xx.— andre the spy. 

We have now traversed the career of the ill-fated Andre in all its changes 
of scene, in its varied phases of absorbing interest. 

Pity that young man if you will, plant flowers over his grave, sing hymns 
to his memory, but remember, he iciis a srv. 

That dishonored thing, which no true warrior can look upon, save with 



\ 



ANDRE THE SPY. 263 

Io:illiiiin; — not merely a ("onspiriilor, nor a Traitor, Init llie lacqiiny of Trea- 
son — A Sl'V. 

Kcmeinber, lliat the wife of Benedict ArnoliI, on terms of intimate friend- 
ship with Andre, while the British held Philadelphia, corresponded with 
him long after her marriage, and then call to mind a sinffle fact: her cor- 
respondence was the chainiel of eomniunication between Arnold and the 
British (leneral. Can we, with any show of reason, snppose this wife 
innocent of participation in the tr(Mison of her husband ? Is it at all plausible, 
or probable, that she was ignorant of the contents of Arnold's letters ? 

Rememlicr that Andre was a partner in this conspiracy, from the first 
moment of its dawn, until bj' iiis manly letter to Washington, he avowed 
himself a I$ritish oflicer, captured in disguise, on American ground. lie 
was elevated to a Majority, dignillcd with the post of Adjutant General, in 
order that he might more cflVclually Carry out the plan, originated between 
himself and Arnold. lie was to enter West Point, not as an open foe, 
ready to combat wiih his enemies on the ramparts of the fortress, but as a 
Conspirator ; he was to concpicr the stronghold, laid defenceless by the re- 
moval of the ("outinental force, by a juggle, and wreathe his brows with the 
parchments of a purchased victory. 

For this, his promise<l reward was the commission of a Brigadier General. 

For aiding an American (icncral in his midnight cain|)aign of craft and 
treachery, he was to receive the honors that are awarded to a Concpieror 
who lights in broad day; for taking a deserted fort, his brows were to be 
wreathed with laurel, which is given to the leader of a forlorn hope, who 
dares the sternest front of battle without a fear. 

With all his talent — disjilaycd as an Artist, a Poet, and a Soldier — with 
all the genius which made him an admirable companion, with all the chiv- 
alry which won praise and tears from his enemies, willi all the rich cluster 
of his gifts, and the dim memories that gather round his name, we must 
confess, that he was one of the originator's of Arnold's Treason, that ho 
descended to a course of intrigue, beneath the honor of a warrior, that he 
was justly condenmed and hung as a Spy. 

There is one dark thought that crowds upon us as we survey this history. 
We may endeavor to banish it, but it will come back with overwluilniing 
force. It starts from the history, and moves along every page, a brooding 
and fearful shadow. — John Andre and the Wife of Arnold, first planned 
the Treason, (ind then — u'hile his heart was lacerated by a sense of Inn 
tvrongs — lured liim into the plot. 

That is a startling thought. 

There is no point of Washington's career more tlioroughly worthy of our 
veneration, than his course in relation to Andre. He did not know — he 
could not guess the extent or ramifications of the Treason. A base |)lan 
had been laid to capture a Fortress and crush his army. This jilan aided 
by an honorable gentleman in the guise of a Spy. It was necessary to 



264 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

ni:ike an cxamplo, the lime hail come lor ihe British (ieneral to leani the 
hitler truth, that the American leader was no less ready lo meet his foes, 
sword in hand in hallle, than to iiang them on the jjibbet's timbers as Spies. 

At once he stood resolved in his course. Andre must die. No persua- 
sions could chanije his lirjn puri>ose. He pitied the viciim, but condemned 
him to death, lie wept Ibr his untimely fate, but hung him on a gibbet. 
His iieari Mod as he signed the death-warrar.t, but still he consigned Andre 
to a felon's grave. 

There have been many tears shed over Andre, but while I pity him, I 
must confess that my tears are reserved for the thousand victims of British 
wrong, murdered during the war. Tlicn the thought of Benedict Arnold, 
hurled from the Patriot and the Hrsro, into the Bandit and Traitor, as much 
by the persecutions of his enemies, as by his own fnulls, as much from tlie 
inlluence of Andre and his own wife,* as from inclination, has for me an in- 
terest that altogether surpasses the fate of the Spy. 

The historical pictures which I have placed before you, show the mys- 
tery in every light. I have endeavored to e-mbody in these pictures Ihe 
manners, the costume, the contending opinions, the very spirit of the Revo- 
lution. Let me now present to you another illustration, in order to show, 
that the British in a case similar to that of Andre, never indulged one throb 
of pity. 

Behold the Mercy of King George ! 

; XXI.— NATHAN HALE. 

It was a calm, clear evening in the early spring of 1T7J), when a young 
man came to his native home, to bid his aged mother farewell. 

I see that picture before nie now. 

A two-story house, built of grey stone, witli a small garden extending 
from the door to the roadside, while all around arise the orchard trees, 
fragrant with the first blossoms of spring. Yonder you behqld the hay- 
rick and the barn, with the lowing cattle grouped together in the shadows. 

It is a quiet hour ; everything seems beautiful and holy. There is a pur- 
ple Hush upon the Western sky, a sombre richness of shadow resting upon 
yonder woods ; a deep serenity, as if from God, imbues and hallows this 
evening hour. 

Yonder on the cottage porch, with the rich glow of the sunset on her 
face, sits the aged mother, the silvery hair parted above her pale brow. 
The Bible lays open on her knees. Her dress is of plain rude texture, but 
there is that about her countenance which makes you forget her homespun 



• II is slaipJ on llic authority of Aaron Burr, that the Wife of the Troilor. after 
t!ie joiiK'd lier liiisliaiid in the British hnes, e.xpressed her ooiittinpt lor the A;uerican 
caiiso. s^nrlionoil ihe course of .'\rnold. nnJ iiilerij oiher expressions of foclinij, 
which showed (hut she was a cu-piutner in the work of Treason. 



NATHAN HALE. 265 

costume. Her eyes, their d;\rk blue contrasting with the withered outlines 
of her countenance, are upraised. She is gazintj in the face of the sou, 
who hends over Jier shoulder and returns her glance. 

His young form is arrayed in a plain blue hunting frock, faced with fur, 
while his rifle rests against the door, and his pistols are girded to his waist 
by a belt of dark leather. A plain costiniie this, but gaze upon the face of 
that young man and tell ine, do you not read a clear soul, shining from those 
dark eyes ? That white brow, shadowed by masses of brown hair, bears 
the impress of 'riioughl, while tlie palo cheek tells the story of long nights 
given to the dim old Hebrew Bible, with its words of giant meaning and 
organ-like music ; to the profane classics of Greece and Itomc, the sublime 
reveries of Plato, the impassioned earnestness of Demosthenes, or the in- 
cliignant eloquence of Cicero. 

Yes, fresli from the halls of Vale, the poetry of the Past, shining se- 
renely in his soul, to his childhood's home, comes the young student to 
claim his mother's blessing and bid her a long farewell. 

I5ut why this rille, these pistols, this plain uniform ? 

I will tell you. 

One day, as he sat bending over that Hebrew Volume — with its great 
thoughts spoken in a tongue now. lost to man, in the silence of ages — he 
looked from his window and beheld a dead body carried by, the glassy eyes 
upturned to the skj', while the stiffened limb hung trailing on the ground. 

It was the first dead man of Lexington. 

That sight roused his blood; the voice of the Martyrs of Bunker Hill 
seemed shrieking forever in his ears. He flung aside the student's gown ; 
he put on the hunting shirt. A sad farewell to those well-worn volumes, 
which had cheered the weariness of many a midnight watch, one last look 
around that lonely room, whose walls had heard his earnest soliloquies ; 
and then he was a soldier. 

The Child of Genius felt the strong cords of Patriotism, drawing him 
toward th« last bed of the Martyrs on Bunker Hill. 

And now in the sunset hour, he stands by his mother's side, taking the 
one last look at that wrinkled face, listening for the last time to the tremu- 
lous tones of that solemn voice. 

" I did hope, ray child," said the aged woman, " I did hope to see you 
ministering at the altar of Almighty God, but the enemy is in the land, and 
your duty is plain before you. Go, my sou — fight like a man for your 
country. In the hour of battle remember that God is with your cause ; 
that His arm will guide and guard you, even in the moment of death. 
War, my child, is at best a fearful thing, a terrible license for human 
butchery ; but a war like this, is holy in the eyes of (iod. Go — and when 
you fight, may you conquer, or if you fall in death, remember your 
mother's blessing Ls on your head !" 



2G6 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

And in tliat cvcninsr liour, the aged woman stood erect, and laid her 
■williered liand upon his bended head. 

A mouient passed, and he liad grasped his rille, he had muttered ll>e last 
farewell. While the aged woman stood on the porch, following him with 
her eyes, he turned his steps towards the road. 

Hut a form stood in his path, the form of a young woman clad in the 
plain costume of a New England girl. Do you behold a voluptuous 
beauty waving in tlie outlines of that form ? Is the hair dark as night, or 
■ long, glossy, waving and beautil'ul ? Are those hands soft, white and deli- 
cate ? You behold none of these ; for the young girl wiio stands tliere in 
the student's path, has none of the dazzling attraction of personal beauty. 
A slender form, a white forehead, with the brown hair plainly parted around 
that unpretending countenance, iiands somewhat roughened by toU ; suah 
were the attractions of that New England girl. 

And yet there was a something that chained your eyes to her face, and 
made your heart swell as yon looked upon her. It was the soul, which 
shone from her eyes and glowed over her pallid cheek. It was the deep, 
ardent, all-trusting love, the eternal faith of her woman's nature, which gave 
such deep vivid interest to that plain face, that pale white brow. 

She stood there, waiting to bid her -lover farewell, and the tear was in 
her eye, tlie convulsive tremor of suppressed emotion on her lip. Yet 
with an unfaltering voice, she bade him go ligiit for his country and con- 
quer in the name of God. 

" Or" — she exclaimed, placing her hands against his breast, while her 
eyes were rivetted to his face, "should you fall in the fight. I will pray God 
to bless your last hour with all the glory of a soldier's death !" 

That was the last words she said ; he grasped her hand, impressed his 
kiss upon her lip, and went slowly from his home. 

I 

When we look for him again, the scene is changed. It is night, yet, 
through the gloom, the white tents of the Hrilish army rise up like ghosts 
on the summit of tiie Long Island hills. It is night, yet the stars look 
down upon that Red Cross banner now floating sullenly to the ocean breeze. 

We look for the Enthusiast of Yale ! Yonder, in a dark room, through 
■whose solilarv window pours the mild (.denm of the stars, yonder we behold 
the dusky outlines of a human form, with head bent low and arms folded 
over the chest. It is very dark in the room, very still, yet can you dis- 
cover the bearing of the soldier in the uuccrlatn outline of that form, yet can 
you hear the tread of the sentinel on the sands without. 

Suddenly that form arises, and draws near the solitary window. The 
stars gleam over a pale face, with eyes burning with unnatural light. It is 
dusky and dim, the faint light, but still you can read the traces of agony 
like death, ansruish like despair stamped on the brow, and cheek, and lip 
of that youthful countenance. « 



NATHAN HALE. 267 

You can hear a single, low toned moan, a muttered prayer, a broken 
ejaculalion. Those ej'es are upraised to the stars, and then the pale face 
no longer looks from the window. That form slowly retires, and is lost in 
the darkness of the room. 

Meanwhile, without the room, on yonder slope of level ground, crowning 
the ascent of the hill, the sound of hammer and saw breaks on the silence 
of the hour. Dim forms go to and fro in the darkness ; stout pieces of 
timber are planted in the ground, and at last the work is done. All is still. 
But, like a phantom of evil, from the brow of yonder hill arises that strange 
structure of timber, with the rope dangling from its summit. 

There is a face gazing from yonder window, at this thing of evil ; a face 
with lips pressed between the teeth, eyes glaring with unnatural light. 

Suddenly a footstep is heard, the door of that room is flung open, and a 
blaze of light fills the place. In the door-way stands a burly figure, clad in 
the British uniform, with a mocking sneer upon that brutal countenance. 

'Tlie form — which we lately beheld in the gloom — now rises, and con- 
fronts the British soldier. It needs no second glance to tell us that we be- 
hold the Enthusiast of Yale. That dress is soiled and torn, that face is 
sunken in the cheeks, wild and glaring in the eyes, yet we can recognize 
the brave youth who went forth from his home on that calm evening in 
spring. 

He confronts the Executioner, for that burly figure in the handsome red 
coat, Willi the glittering ornaments, is none other than the Provost of the 
British army. 

" I am to die in the morning," began the student, or pris mi 
choose to call him. 

" Yes," growled the Provost, "yon were taken as a spj, 

sentenced as a spy, and to-morrow morning, you will be hanged as a spy !" 

That was the fatal secret. General Washington desired information from 
Long Island, where the British encamped. A young soldier appeared, his 
face glowing with a high resolve. He would go to Long Island ; he would 
examine the enemy's posts ; he would peril his life for Washington. Nay, 
he would peril more than his life ; he would peril his honor. For the sol- 
dier who dies in the bloody onset of a forlorn hope, dies in honor : but the 
man who is taken as a spy, swings on tiie gibbet, an object of loathing and 
scorn. But this young soldier would dare it all ; the gallows and the dis- 
honor : all for the sake of Washington. 

" General," was the sublime expression of the Enthusiast, " when I vol- 
unteered in the army of liberty, it was my intention to devote my soul to 
the cause. It is not for me now to choose the manner or the method of 
the service which I ara to perform. I only ask, in what capacity does my 
country want me. You tell me that I will render her great service by this 
expedition to Long Island. All I can ausiver is with one word — bid nie 
depart and I will go !" 



208 DKNEDICT ARNOLD. 

He went, obtained llie information which lie sought, and was about to 
leave the shore of ihe Island for New York, wiien lie was discovered. 

Now, in the chamber of llie condemned felon, he awaited llie hour of his 
fate, liis face betraying deep emotion, yet it was not tiie agitation of fear. 
Death he could williiij^ly face, bnl the death of the Gibbet .' 

lie now approached ihe British officer, and spoke in a calm, yet hollow 
voice : 

" My friend, I am to die to-morrow. It is well. I have no regrets to 
spend upon my untimely fate. But as the last request of a dying man, lei 
)ne implore you to take charge of these letters." 

lie extended some four or five letters, among which was one to his be- 
trothed, one to his mother, and one to Washington. 

" Promise me, that you will have these letters delivered after I am dead." 

The Briton shifted the lamp from one hand to the otlier, and then with 
nil oath, made answer. 

" By , I'll have nothing to do with the letters of a spy !" 

The young man dropped the letters on the floor, as though a bullet had 
torn them from his grasp. His head sunk on his breast. The cup of his 
agony was full. 

" At least," said he, lifting his large bright eyes, " at least, you will pro- 
cure me a Bible, vou will send me a clergyman ? — I am ready to die, but I 
■wish to die the death of a Christian." 

" You should have thought o' these things before, young man," exclaimed 
the Liveried Hangman. " As for Bible or Preacher, I can tell you at once, 
that you'll get neither through me." 

The young man sank slowly in his chair, and covered his face with his 
hands. The brave Briton, whose courage had been so beautifully mani- 
fested in these last insults to a dying man, stood regarding the object of his 
spite with a brutal scowl. 

Ere a moment was gone, the young man looked up again, and exclaimed : 

" For tlie love of Christ, do not deny lue the consolations of religion iu 
this hour !" 

A loud laugh echoed around tlie room, and the Condemned Spy was in 
darkness. 

Who shall dare to lift the veil from that Enthusiast's heart, and picture 
the agony which shook his soul, doring the slow-moving hours of his last 
nii'ht I Now his lliouglus were with his books, the classics of Greece and 
Kome, or the pages of Hebrew volume, where the breeae of Palestine swells 
over the waves of Jordan, and the songs of Israel resound forevermore ; 
now with his a'^cd mother, or his brtrolhod ; and then a vision of that great 
course of glory which his life teas lo have Ittcn, came home to his soul. 

Tliat course of glory, those high aspirations, those yearnings of Genius 
after the Ideal, were now to be cut off forever by — the Gibbet's rope ! 

I will confess, that to me, there is something terrible iu the last night of 



NATHAN HALE. 260 

the Condemned Spy. Never does my eye rest upon the page of Ameiican 
history, tliat I do not feel for his falo, and feel more liilterly, when I tliink 
of the injustice of that history. Yes, let the trutii be spoken, onr iiistory 
is terribly unjust to the poor — the neglected — the Martyrs, whose fate it 
was, not to suffer in the storm of batde, but in the cell, or by the gibbet's 
rope. How many brave hearts were choked to death by the rope, or buried 
beneath the cells of the gaol, after the agonies of fever ! Where do you 
find their names in history ? 

And the young man, wilh a handsome form, a horn of God genius, a 
highly educated mind — tell us, is there no tear for him ? 

We weep for Andre, and yet he was a mere tlambler, who slaked his 
life against a General's commission. We plant flowers over his grave, and 
yet he was a plotter from motives altogether mercenary — We sing hymns 
about him, and yet with all his accomplishments, he was one of the main 
causes of Arnold's ruin ; he it was who helped to drag the Patriot down 
into the Traitor. 

But this young man, who watches his last night on yonder Long Island 
shore — where are tears for him ? 

Night passed away, and morning came at last. Then tliey led hiju forth 
to the sound of the mulHed drum and measured footstepe; Then — without 
a Bible, or Preacher or friend, not even a dog to wail for him, they placed 
him beneath the gibbet, under that blue sky, with the pine coffin before his 
eyes. 

Stern looks, scowling brows, red uniforms and bristling bayonets, were 
all around, — but for him, the Enthusiast and the Genius, where was the 
kind voice or the tender hand ? 

Yet in that hour, the breeze kissed his cheek, and the vision of Manhat- 
tan Bay, with its foam-crested waves and green Islands, was like a dream 
of peace to his soul. 

The rough hands of the Hangman tied his hands and bared his neck for 
the rope. Then, standing on the death-cart, with the rope about his neck, 
and Eternity before him, that young man was very pale, but calm, collec- 
ted and firm. Then he called the brutal soldiery the liefugee Hangman, to 
witness that he had but one regret — 

And that regret not for his aged mother, not even for liis meek-eyed be- 
trothed, not even for the darkness of that hour, — but, said the Martyr, 

"/ regret that I have only one life to lose for my country.'''' 

That was his last word, for ere the noble sentiment was cold on his lips, 
they choked him to death. The horse moved, the cart passed from under 
his feet ; the Martyr hung dangling in the air ! Where was now that clear 
white brow, that brilliant eye, that well formed mouth ? Look — yes, look 
and behold that thing palpitating with agony — behold that thing suspended 
in the air, with a blackened mass of flesh instead of a face. 

Above, the bright sky — around, the crowd — far away, the free waves — 

32 



270 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

and yel here, tosses and plunges the image of God, tied by llie neck to a 

gibbcl ! 

liike a don- he died — like a dog tliey buried him. No Preacher, no 
prayer, no friend, not even a dog to howl over his grave. There was only 
a pine box and a dead body, with a few of the vilest wretches of the Bri- 
tish camp. Tlial was liic Martyr's funeral. 

At this hour, while I speak, — in the dim siiadows of Westminster Abbey, 
a wiiite monument arises in honor of .John Andre, whose dishonorable 
actions were, in some measure, forgotten in pity for his hideous death. 

But this man of Genius, wiio went forth from the halls of Yai.k, to die 
like a doii, for his country, on the iu'igbts of Long Island — wliere is the 
marble pillar, carved with the letters of ids name ? 

And yet we will remember him, and love him, forevermore. And should 
the day rome, when a Temple will be erected to the ^Memory of the 
Heroes of the Revolution — the Man-Gods of our Past — then, beneath the 
liiTlit of that temple's dome, among the sctdptured images of Washington 
and his compatriots, we will place one poor broken column of New Eng- 
land granite, surmounted by a single leaf of laurel, inscribed with the 
motto — "Jllaa that J have but one life for my country !" and this poor 
column, and leaf of laurel and motto, shall be consecrated with the name of 

Nathan Hale. 



Do you now condemn Washington for signing the death-warrant of 
Andre ? 

Tlie British visited their anathemas upon his head, denounced him as a 
cold-blooded murderer, and talkeii long and loud of the 'Crbel Washington.' 

Tiieir poets made rlivmes about the matter. !\Iiss Seward, one of those 
amiable ladies who drivel whole quires of diluted adjectives, under the 
name of Poetry, addressed some stanzas to Washington, whieh were filled 
with bitter reproaches. Even their historians echoed the charge of cruelty, 
and assailed that Man whose humanity was never called in question. 

Let us, after the case of Nathnu Hale, look at another instance of British 
htmianily. Let us see how the British leaders spared the unfortunate, let 
us contrast their ruthless ferocity, with the Mercy of Washington. 

XXII. -TIIF, MARTVn OF TIIE SOUTH. 

There is a gloom to-day in Charleston, 

It is not often that a great city feels, but wlien this great heart of human* 
ily whose every pulsation is a life, can feel, the result is more terrible than 
the bloodiest battle. Yes, when those arteries of a city, its streets, and 
lanes, and alleys, thrill with the same feeling, when like an electric cliain it 
darts invisibly from one breast to another, until it swells ten thousand 
hearts, the result is terrible. 



THE MARTYR OF THE SOUTH. 271 

I care not whether that result is manifested in a Riot, that fills the streets 
with tlie blootl of men, and women, and lilde children, that fires the roof 
over the head of the innocent, or sends the CImrcli of God whirlinir in 
smoke and flame to the midnight sky ; or whether that feeling is manifested 
in the silence of thousands, the bowed head, the compressed lip, the 
stealthy footstep, still it is a fearful thing to see. 

There is gloom to-day in Charleston. 

A dead awe reigns over the city. Every face you see is stamped with 
gloom ; men go silently by, with anguish in their hearts and eyes. Wo- 
men are weeping in their darkened chambers ; in yonder church old men 
are kneeling before the altar, pniying in low, deep, muttered tones. 

The very soldiers whom you meet, clad in their British uniforms, wear 
sadness on their faces. These men to whom murder is sport, are gloomy 
to-day. The citizens pass hurriedly to and fro ; cluster in groups ; whisper 
together ; glide silently unto their homes. 

The stores are closed to-day, as though it were Sunday. The windows 
of those houses are closed, as though some great man were dead ; there is 
a silence on the air, as though a plague had despoiled the town of its beauty 
and its manhood. 

The British banner — stained as it is with the best blood of the Palmetto 
State — seems to partake of the influence of the hour ; for floating from 
yonder staff", it does not swell buoyantly upon the breeze, but droops heavily 
to the ground. 

The only sound you hear, save the hurried tread of the citizens, is the 
low, solemn notes of the Dead March, groaning from muffled drums. 

Why all this gloom, that oppresses the heart and fills the eyes ? Why 
do Whig and Tory, citizen and soldier, share this gloom alike .' Why this 
silence, this awe, this dread ? 

Look yonder, and in the centre of that common, deserted by every hu- 
man thing, behold — rising in lonely iiideousness — behold, a Gallows. 

Why does that gibbet stand there, blackening in the morning sun ? 

Come with me into yonder mansion, whose roof arises proudly over all 
other roofs. Up these carpeted stairs, into this luxurious chamber, whose 
windows are darkened by hanffings of satin, whose walls are covered with 
tapestry, whose floor is crowded with elegant furniture. All is silent in this 
chamber. 

A single glow of morning light steals through the parted curtains of 
yonder window. Beside that window, with his back to the light, his face 
in shadow, as though he wished to hide certain dark thoughts from the h'ght, 
sits a young man, his handsome form arrayed in a British uniform. ~ 

He is young, but there is the gloom of age upon that woven brow, there 
is the resolve of murder upon that curling lip. His attitude is significant.— 
His head inclined to one side, the cheek resting on the left hand, while the 
right grasps a parchment, which bears his signature, the ink not yet dried. 



272 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

That parchment is a dcalh-warraiu. 

ir you will Kn)k closely iipDii that red uniform you will see that it is 
slaiiieii with llie blood of Paoli, where the cry for "quarter" was answered 
by the falling sword and the reeking bayonet. Yes, this is none other than 
General Grey, the IJutcher of Paoli, transformed by the accolade of his 
King into liORD Uawdon. 

While he'is there by the window, grasping that parchment in his hand, 
Uie duor opens, a strange group stand disclosed on the threshhold. 

A woman and three children, dressed in black, stand there gazing upon 
the English lord. They slowly advance ; do you behold the pale face of 
thai woman, her eyes large and dark, not wet with tears, but glaring with 
speechless woe ? t)n one side a little girl with brown ringlets, on the other 
lier sister, one year older, with dark hair relieving a pallid face. 

.Somewhat in front, his young form rising to every inch of its height, 
stands a boy of thirteen, with chesnut curls, clustering about his fair coun- 
tenance. You can see that dark eye Hash, that lower lip quiver, as he 
silently confrouls Lord Rawdon. 

'J'hc woman — I use that word, for to me it expresses all that is pure in 
passion, or holy in humanity, while your word — lady — means nothing but 
ribbons and milinery — the woman advances, and encircled by these child- 
ren, stands before the gloomy lord. 

" I have come,"' she speaks in a voice that strikes you with its music 
and tenderness. " I have come to plead for my brother's life !" 

She does not say, behold, 7111/ brother's children, but there they are, and 
the English lord beholds them. Tears are coursing down the cheeks of 
those little girls, but the eye of the woman is not dim. The boy of thirteen 
looks intently in the face of the Briton, his under lip quivering like a 
leaf. 

For a single moment that proud lord raises his head and surveys the 
group, and then you hear his deep yet melodious voice : 

" Madam, your brother swore allegiance to His Majesty, and was after- 
wards taken in arms against his King. He is guilty of Treason, and must 
endure the penalty, and that, you well know, is Dkath." 

"But, my lord," said that brave woman, standing firm and erect, her 
beauty shining more serenely in that moment of lieroism, "You well know 
the circumstances under which he swore allegiance. He, a citizen of South 
Carolina, an American, was dragged from the bedside of a dying wife, and 
hurried to Charleston, where this language was held by your oflicers — 'Take 
the oath of allegiance, and return to the bedside of j'our dying wife : Refuse, 
and we will consign you to gaol. This, my lord, not when he was free to 
act, ah, no ! But when his wife lay dying of that fearful disease — small pox 
— which had already destroyed two of his children. How could he act 
otherwise than he did ? how could he refuse to take your oath ? In his 
case, would you, my lord, would any man, refuse to do the same .'" 



THE MARTYR OF THE SOUTH. 273 

Still the silent children stooj there before him, while tlie clear voice of 
the true woman pierced his soiil. 

"Your brother is condemned to death ! He dies at noon. I can do 
nothing for you !" 

Silently the woman, holding a little girl by each hand, sank on her knees ; 
but the bov of thirteen stood erect. Do you see that group ? Those hands 
upraised, those voices, the clear voice of the woman, tlie infantile tones of 
those sweet girls, mingling in one cry for "Mercy !" while the Briton looks 
upon them with a face of iron, and the boy of thirteen stands erect, no tear 
in his eye, but a convulsive tremor on his lip I 

Then the tears of that woman come at last — then as the face of that stern 
man glooms before her, she takes the little hands of the girls within her 
own, and lifts them to his knee, and begs him to spare the father's life. 

Not a word from the English Lord. 

The boy still firm, erect and silent, no tear dims tlie eye which glares 
steadil)- in the face of the tyrant. 

"Ah, you relent I" shrieks that sister of the condemned man. "You 
will not deprive these children of a father — you will not cut him off in the 
prime of manhood, by this hideous death ! As you hope for mercy in 
your last hour, be merciful now — spare my brother, and not a heart in 
Charleston but will bless you — spare him for the sake of these children !" 

" Madam," was the cold reply, "your brother has been condemned to 
die. I can do nothing for you !" 

He turned his head away, and held the parchment before his eyes. At 
last the stern heart of the boy was melted. There was a spasmodic motion 
about his chest, his limbs shook, he stood for a moment like a statue, and 
then fell on his knees, seizing the right hand of Lord Rawdon with his 
trembling fingers. 

Lord llawdon looked down upon that young face, shadowed with ches- 
nut-curls, as the small hands clutched his wrist, and an expression of sur- 
prise came over his face. 

"My child," said he, "I can do nothing for you !" 

The boy silently rose. He took a sister by each hand. There was a 
wild light in his young eye — a scorn of defiance on his lip. 

"Come, sisters, let us go." 

He said this, and led those fair girls toward the door, followed by the 
sister of the condemned. Not a word more was said — but ere they passed 
from the room, that true woman looked back into the face of Lord Rawdon. 

He never forgot that look. 

They were gone from the room, and he stood alone before that window, 
with the sunlight pouring over his guilty brow. ' 

"Yes, it is necessary to make an example '. This rebellion must be 
crushed; these rebels taught submission! The death of this man will 
strike terror into their hearts. They will learn at last that treason is no 



274 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

triflinrr game ; that the rope and the gibbet will reward each Rebel for liis 
crime !" 

Toor Lord Kawdoii ! 

The streets were now utterly deserted. Not a oitizcn, a soldier, not 
even a ne^ro was seen. 'A silence like death rested upon llie city. 

Suddenly tlie sound of the dead mareli was lieard, and yonder behold 
the only evidence of life throngh this wide cily. 

On yonder common, around the gibbet, is gathered a strangely contrast- 
ed crowd. Tliere is the ncfrro, tlie outcast of society, the British officer 
in his uniform, the citizen in his plain dress. All are grouped together in 
that crowd. 

In the centre of the dense mass, beside that horse and cart, one foot 
resting on tliat collin of pine, stands the only man in this crowd with an 
uncovered brow. He stands there, an image of mature manhood, with a 
muscular form, a clear fidl eye, a bold forehead. Ilis cheek is not pale, 
nor his eye dim. He is dressed neatly in a suit of dark velvet, made after 
the fashion of his time ; one hand inserted in his vest, rests on his heart. 

Above his head dangles the rope. Near his back stands that figure with 
the craped face ; around are the British solilicrs, separating the condemned 
from the crowd. Among all that rude band of soldiers, not an eye but is 
wet witli tears. 

The brave officer there, who has charge of the murder, pulls his chapeau 
over his eyes, to shield them from the sun, or — can it be ? — to hide his 
tears. 

All is ready. He has bidden the last farewell to his sister, his children 
in yonder gaol ; he has said his last word to his noble boy, pressed his last 
kiss upon the lips of those fair girls. All is ready for the murder. 

At this moment a citizen advances, his face convulsed with emotion-^ 

"lla)'ne," he speaks, in a clioking voice, "show them how an American 
can die !" 

"I will endeavor to do so," was the reply of the doomed man. 

At this moment the hangman advanced, and placed the cap over his brow. 
A cry was heard in the crowd, a footstep, and those soldiers shrank back 
before a boy of thirteen, who came rushing forward. 

"Father !" he shrieked, as he beheld tiic condemned with the cap over 
his brow. 

One groan arose from that crowd — a simultaneous expression of horror. 

The father drew the cap from his brow : beheld the wild face, the glaring 
eyes of his son. 

"God bless you, my boy," he spoke, gathering that young form to his 
heart. "Now go, and leave your father to his fate. Return when I am 
dead — receive my body, and have it buried by my forefathers !" 



THE MARTYR OF THE SOUTH. 275 

As tlie boy turned and went tlirough the crowd, the father stciipcd linnly 
into the cart. 

There was a pause, as though every man in that crowd was suddenly 
turned to stone. 

The boy looked back b\it once, only once, and then beheld ali, I dare 

not speak it, for it chills the blood in the veins he beheld that manly 

form suspended to the gibbet, with tlie cap over his brow, while the dis- 
torted face glowed horribly in the sun. 

That was his Father ! 

That boy did not shriek, nor groan, but instandy — like a light extinguish- 
ed suddenly — the lire left his eye, die color his cheek. His lips opened in 
a silly smile. The first word he uttered told the story — 

"My father !" he cried, and then pointed to the body, and broke into a 
laugh. 

Oh, it was horrible, that laugh, so hollow, slirill, and wild. The child 
of the Martyr was an idiot. 

Still, as the crowd gathered round him, as kind hands bore him away, 
that pale face was turned over his shoulder toward the gallows: 

"My Father !" 

And still that laugh was borne upon the breeze, even to the gibbet's 
timbers, where — in hideous mockery, a blackened but not dishonored thing 
— swung the body of the Martyr Hayne. 

"This death will strike terror into the hearts of the Rebels !" 

Poor Lord Rawdon ! 

Did that man, in his fine uniform, forget that there was a God ? Did he 
forii^ct diat the voice of a Martyr's blood can never die ? 

This death strike terror into the heart of the Rebels ? 

It roused one feeling of abhorrence through the whole South. It took 
down a thousand rifles from the hooks above the lire-side licarlh. It turned 
many a doubting heart to the cause of freedom ; nay, Tories by hundreds 
came flocking to the camp of liberty. The blood of Hayne took root and 
grew into an army. 

There came a day when George Washington, by the conquest of York- 
town, had in his possession the murderer who did this deed ; Lord Corn- 
wallis, who commended, nay commanded it: Lord Rawdon, who signed 
the death-warrant. 

Here was a glorious chance for Washington to avenge the Martyr Ilayne, 
who had been choked to death by these men. The feeling of the army, 
the voice of America — nay, certain voices tliat spoke in the British Parlia- 
ment, would have justified die deed. The law of nations would have pro- 
claimed it a holy act. But how did Washington act ? 

He left each murderer to God and his own conscience. He showed the 



276 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

whole world a sublime maiiifestatioii of forjjiveness and scorn. For^ve- 
ness for lliis iiuniilitaled (^oiinvallis, who, so far from bearnii; Washington 
home to London a prisoner in chains, was now a conquered man in the 
midst of iiis captive army. 

Ijul tiiis Lord Uawdon, who, raptured by a French vessel, was brought 
into Yorktown, this arrested murderer, who skulled about the camp, the 
object of universal loathing, how did Washington treat him J 

lie scorned him too mucli to lay a hand upon his head ; from the fulness 
of contempt, he permilicd hijii to live. 

Poor Lord Rawdon ! 

Who hears his name now, save as an object, forgotten in the universality 
of scorn i 

13ut the Martyr — where is the heart that does not throb at the mention of 
his fate, at the name of Isaac Haynk ? 

XXIII— ARNOLD IN VIIi(;lNIA. 

In the history of the present Mexican war, it is stated, that fiflecn women 
were driven by the bombardment of Vera Cruz, to take refuge in a church, 
near the allar, their pale faces illumined by the same red glare, that revealed 
the sculptured image of Jesus and the sad, mild face of the Virgin 
Mother. 

While they knelt there, a lighted bomb — a globe of iron, containing at 
least three hundred balls — crashed ihrnugli the roof of the church, descendeil 
in the midst of the women, and exploded 

There is not a Fiend, but whose heart would fail him, when surveying 
tlic result of that explosion. 

So, upon the homes of Virginia, in December, 1781, burst the Traitor, 
Benedict Arnold. 

As his ship glided up James River, aided by wind and tide — a leaden 
sky above, a dreary winter scene around, the other vessels following in the 
wake — he stood on its deck, and drew his sword, repeating his oalh, to 
avenge the death of John Andre ! 

How did he keep that Oalh ? 

He was always excited to madness in the hour of conflict, always fight- 
ing like a tigress robbed of her young, but now he concealed the heart of a 
Devil, beneath a British uniform. The homes that he burnt, the men that 
he stabbed, the murders that dripped from his sword, could not be told in a 
volume. 

At midnight, over the ice-bound river and frozen snow, a red column of 
flame Hashed far and wide, rising in terrible grandeur into the star-lit sky. — 
It was only Arnold and his Men, laying an American home in ashes and 
blood. 

When morning came, there was a dense black smoke darkening over 



ARNOLD IN VIRGINIA. 277 

yonder wood:--. Tlie first light of the winter's day shone over llie maddened 
visat;e of Arnohl, clu'cvinsr on his men to scenes of mnrder. 

The very men who fou^rht under him, despised liini. As the olTieers 
received his orders, they could not disguise the contempt of the curved lip 
and averted eye. 'J'he phantom of Andre never left Iiim. If hefore he liad 
been desperate, he was now infernal — if Quebec liad behold him a brave 
soldier, ihe shores of James River, the streets of Kichmond saw in his form 
the linage of an Assassin. 

Tortured by Remorse, hated, doubted, despised by the men who had 
purchased his sword, his honor, Arnold seemed at this time, to become the 
Foe of the whole human race. 

When not engaged in works of carnage, he would sit alone in his tent, 
resting his head in his clenched liand and shading from the liglit, a face 
distorted by demoniac passions. 

The memory of Andre was to him, what the cord, sunken in the lacerated 
flesh, is to the Hindoo devotee, a didl, gnawing, ever-present pain. 

One day he sent a flag of truce, with a letter to La Fayette. The heroic 
Boy-General returned the letter without a word. Arnold took the unan- 
swered letter, sought the shadow of his tent, and did not speak for some 
hours. That calm derision cut him to the soul. 

There was brought before him, on a calm winter's day, an American 
Captain who had been taken prisoner. Arnold surveyed the hardy soldier, 
clad in that glorious blue uniform, which he himself had worn with honor, 
and after a pause of silent thought, asked with a careless smile — 

" What will tlie Americans do with me, in case they take me prisoner?" 

" Hang your body on a gibbet, but bury your leg with the honors of war. 
Not the leg that first planted a footstep on the British ship, but the leg that 
was broken at Quebec and Saratoga !"' 

Arnold's countenance fell. He asked no more questions of that soldier. 

One dark and cheerless winter's evening, as the sun shining from a blue 
ridge of clouds, lighted up the recesses of a wood, near the James River, a 
solitary horseman was pursuing his way along a path that led from the 
forest into a wild morass. 

On either side of the path were dangerous bogs, before the traveller a 
dreary prospect of ice and reeds, at his back, the unknown wood which he 
had just left. He had wandered far from the road, and lost his way. 

He covered his face and neck with the cloak, which, drooping over his 
erect form, fell in large folds on the back of his horse. The sky was dark 
and lowering, the wind sweeping over the swamp, bitter cold. From an 
aperture in the clouds, the last gush of sunlight streamed over the ice of the 
morass, with that solitary horsemen darkly delineated in the centre. 

Suffering the horse to choose his way, the traveller, with his face con- 
cealed in the cloak, seemed absorbed in his thoughts, while the sun went 
down ; the night came on ; the snow fell in large flakes. 

33 



278 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

The instinct of llie horse guided him liirough many devious paths, at 
last, however, lie iiuUed in eviih-nt distress, while the fading snow whitened 
liis dark llaiiks. The traveller looked around : all had grown suddenly 
dark. He could not distinguish the path. Suddenly, however, a light 
blazed in his face, and he beheld but a few paees before him, the glow of a 
("ireside, streaming thnnigh an opened door. A miserable hut stood there, 
on an island of the swamp, with the immense trunks of leafless trees rising 
above its narrow roof. 

As the traveller, by that sudden light hurried forward, he beheld standing 
in the doorway, the ligure of an old man, elad after the Indian style, in 
hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins, with a fur cap on his brow. 

" Who comes ihar ?" the ch.iUenge echoed and a rille was raised. 

"A friend, who will thank you to direct him to the path whieli leads into 
the high road !" 

"On sieh a night as this, I'd recther not!" answered the oW hunter — 
" Ilow'sever, if you choose to share my fire and Johnny cake, you're wel- 
come ! Thai's all an old soldier can say !" 

— In a few moments, looking into the solitary room of that secluded hut, 
you might sec the traveller seated on one side of a cheerful fire, built on the 
hard clay, while opposite, resting on a log, the old man turned the cake in 
the ashes, and passed the w hiskey llask. 

A lighted pine knot, attached to a huge oaken post which formed the main 
support of the roof, threw its vivid glare into the wrinkled face of the hunter. 
The traveller, still wrapped in his cloak, seejued to avoid the light, for while 
he eagerly partook of the cake and shared the contents of the llask, he 
shaded his eyes with his broad chapeau. 

Around these two figures were many testimonials of the old man's skill, 
.ind some records of his courage. The antlers of a deer nailed to a post, 
the skin of a panther extended along the logs, five or six scalps suspended 
from the roof, bore testimony to a life of desperate deeds. Hy his side, 
his powder horn and hunting pouch, and an old rifle, glowed redly in tlie 
light. 

The rude meal was finished ; the traveller raised his head and glanced 
covertly around the place. 

" You seem comfortable here ? A somewhat lonely spot, however, in 
the middle of the swamj), with nothing but ice and reeds around you ?"' 

The old iiunter smiled until his veteran lace resembled a piece of intri- 
cate net work. 

" If you'd a-been some five years c^p-tive among the Ingins as I have 
been, you'd think this here log hut reether comfortable place !" 

" \ou — a captive ?" muttered the traveller. 

" Look thar !" and raising his cap he laid bare his sliuU, which was at 
once divested of the hair and skin. The hideous traces of a savage outrage, 
were clearly perceptible. 



ARNOLD IN VIRGINIA. 279 

"Thai's whar tlie Iiigins scalped me! But old Biiininiiu didn't die 
jist tlicii !'' 

" Where were you, at the time the Indians captured you ?" \ 

" In Canada — " 

" Canada ?" echoed the travcHer. 

" Docs tliat seem pccooliar .'"' cluiclcled llie old man — " Taken captive in 
Canada, I was kei)t among 'em five years, and liiii n't got near a white set- 
tlement, until a month liack. I haint lived here more nor three weeks. 
Vou see I've iiad a dev'hsh lough time of it !" 

" You are not a Canadian ?" 

" Old Virginny to the back-bone ! You see I went to jine the army near 
Boston, with Dan'el Morgan — You niought a-happencd to heard o' that 
man, stranger ? A parfict boss to figlit, mind I tell 'ee !" 

" Morgan ?" whispered the traveller, and his liead sunk lower in his cloak. 

" Yes, you see Morgan and his men jined Arnold — you've heered of 
him ?" 

The traveller removed his seat, or log, from the fire. It was gelling un- 
comfortably warm. 

" Arnold — yps, I think I have heard of that man ?" 

" Ilccr'd of him ? Why I reckon, if livin', by this time he's the greatest 
man a-goin'! Yes, stranger, 1 was with him, with Arnold on his v'yge 
over land to Quebec ! What a parfict devil he was, be sure !" 

" You knew Arnold ?" 

" Wer n't I with him all the wa}', for two months ? Die n't I see him 
every liour of the day J Nothin' could daunt that fellow — his face was 
always the same — and when there was danger, you need n't ask where he 
was. Arnold was always in the front !" 

" lie was a rash, high-tempered man ?" 

" A beaver to work and a wild cat to fight ! Hot-tempered as old Sattin, 
but mind I tell 'cc, his heart was in the right place. I recollect one day, 
we brought to a halt on the banks of a river. Our provisions were gone. 
There were n't a morsel left. E'en the dngs an' sarpinis had run out. Our 
men set about in squads, talkin' the matter over. AVc were the worst 
starved men, that had ever been seen in them parts. Well, in midst of it 
all, Arnold calls me aside — I sec his face yet, with an eye like one of them 
fire-coals — ses he, " Bingimin, you''re a lilllc older than the rest of us! 
Take this crust .'" And he gives mc a bit of bread, that he took from the 
breasi of his coat. Yes, the Colonel — sufl'crin' himself for bread — give ine 
the last he had, out of his own mouth !'' 

The old man brushed his eyes with the back of his hand. The traveller 
seemed asleep, for his head had fallen on his breast, whde his elbows rested 
on his knees. The hunter, however, continued his story. 

" Then you should a-secn him, at the Storniin' o" Quebec ! Laws help 
us ! Why, even when his leg was broke, he cheered his men, and fought, 



280 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

sworti in haml, until lie fell in a piulclle ol' liis own blood ! I idl you, lliat 
ArnoUl was a born devil to figlit !" 

" You said you were captured by the Indians ?" hastily interrupted the 
Biranger, kerpinj^ his face witliiri the folds of his cloak. 

" I carried Arnold fron) the Rock at Quchcc, and was with him when the 
Americans were retreating toward Lake ChaMii)lain. One night, wandering 

on the shore, the red skins come upon me hut it's a long story. You 

seem to be from civilized parts, stranger. Can you tell me, what's become 
of Benedict Arnold ? Is ho alive ?" 

" He is," sullenly responded the traveller. 

" At the head of the heap, too, I'll he bound ! A Continental to the 
backbone? Hey? Next to Washington iiimself?" 

'J'hc traveller was silent. 

" JMaybe, stranger, you can tell me soniclhin' about the war? You 
seem to come from the big cities? What's been doin' lately ? The Con- 
tinental Congress still in operation ? I did hcer, while captive among the 
Ingins, that our folks had cut loose altogether from King George ?" 

The strange gentlemen did not answer. His face still shrouded in his 
cloak, he folded his arms over his knees, while the old n)3n gazed upon 
him with a look of some interest. 

" So you knew Benedict Arnold V a deep, hoarse voice echoed from the 
folds of the cloak. 

" That I did ! — And a braver man never " 

" He was brave ? Was he ?" 

" Like his iron sword, his character was full of dents and notches, but 
his heart was always true, and his hand struck home in the hour of battle !" 

" The soldiers liked him ?" 

*' Reether so ! You should have seen 'em follow his voice and eye on 
the ramparts of Quebec! They fairly warshipped him — " 

" Do you think he loved his country ?" 

" Do I think ! I don't think abont it — I knoir it I — Rut vou don't seem 
well — eh ? Got a chill ? You trimble so. Wait a moment, and I'll put 
more wood on the fire." 

The stranger rose. Stilly keeping his cloak about his neck and face, he 
moved toward the narrow door. 

" I must go !" he said, in that hoarse voice, which for some unknown 
reason, struck on the old man's ear with a peculiar sound. 

" Go : On sich a night as this ? It t:>int possible !" 

" I must go ! You can tell me, the best jiath from this accursed swamp, 
and I will leave without a moment's delay !" 

The old man was conscious that no persuasion on his part, could change 
the iron resolve of the stranger's tone. 

In a momrnt standing in the door, a lighted pine knot in his hand, he 
gazed upon the sight revealed by its glare — That cloaked IJgure mounted on 



ARNOLD IN VIRGr>!IA. 281 

the Jaik steed, who willi mane and tail waving to tlie gust, neck arched 
and eve rolling, stood ready for the march. 

It was a terrible night. The snow had ciiangcd to sleet, the wind swell- 
iniT to a hurricane, roared like the voices of ten thousand men clamoring in 
b-.Ittle, over the wilds of the swamp. Alliiongh it was in the depth of 
winter, the sound of distant thunder was heard, and a pale lurid lightning 
flashed from the verge of that dreary horizon. 

The old man, with the light flaring now over his withered face, now over 
the stranger and his steed, stood in the doorway of his rude home. 

" Take the track to the right — turn the big oak about a quarter of a mile 
from this place, and then you must follow the windin's of the path, as best 
you may ! — Hut hold, it's a terrible night : I'll not see a fellow bein's life in 
peril. Wait a minute, until I get my cap and rille ; I'll go with you to the 

edge of the swamp " 

" So you would like to know — " interrupted the deep voice of the Stran- 
ger — " So you would like to know wliat has become of Benedict Arnold ?" 
That voice held the old man's eye and ear like a spell. He started for- 
ward, holding the torch in his hand, and grasped the stirrup of the traveller. 
Then occurred a sudden, yet vivid and impressive scene ! 
You hear the winter thunder roll, you see the pale lightning glow. That 
torch spreads a circle of glaring light around the old man and the horseman, 
while all beyond is intensely dark. You behold the brown visage of the 
aged soldier, seamed with wrinkles, battered with scars, its keen grey eyes 
upraised, the white hairs streaming in tiie wind. 

And then, like some wild creation of that desert waste, you see the im- 
patient horse, and the cloaked figure, breaking into the vivid light, and dis- 
tinctly relieved by the universa of darkness beyond. 

The old man gazed intently for a moment, and then fell back against the 
door-post of his hut, appalled, frightened, thunderstricken. The mingled 
despair, wonder, fear, stamped upon his battle-worn face, was frightful to 
behold. 

' — The cloak had fallen from the Stranger's shoulders. The old man be- 
held a massive form clad in scarlet, a bronzed visage disturbed by a hideous 
emotion, two dark eyes that flashed through the gloom, as with the light of 
eternal despair. » 

" yow, do you know me?''' thundered that hoarse voice, and a mist came 
over the old man's eyes. 

When he recovered his consciousness again, the tufted sward before his 
hut was vacant. There was tlie sound of horse's hoofs, crashing ihrougli 
the swamp, there was the vision of a horse and rider, seen far over the 
waste, by the glare of the winter liglitning. 

The space before the hut was vacant, yet still that old man witli his par- 
alyzed hand clencliing the torch, beheld a hideous vision rising against the 
dark sky — a red uniform, a bronzed visage, two burning eyes ! 



282 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

" To-night," he faltered — this brave old man, now Iransfomied into a 
very coward, by that siglit— " To-ni>rht, I have seen the Fiend of Dark- 
ness— for it was not — no ! It was not Benedict Ahnold !" 

And the old man until the hour of iiis death, firmly believed that the 
vision of that night, was a horrible delusion, created by the fiend of dark- 
ness, to frighten a brave old soldier. lie died, believing still in the P.'itriot 
Arnold. 

Arnold was afterwards heard to say, that all the shames and scorns, 
which had been showered upon his head, never cut him so thoroughly to 
tiie soul, as the fervent admiration of that Soldier of the Wilderness, who 
in his lonely wanderings still cherished in his heart, the memory of the 
Patkiot Arnold. 

XXIV.— THE THREE WORDS— 

WHICH FOLLOWED liUNEDICT ARXOl.U TO II1.S GRAVE. 

When we look for the Traitor again, we find him standing in the steeple 
of the New London ciuirch, gazing with a calm joy upon tlie waves of fire 
that roll around him, while the streets beneath, flow with the blood of men 
and women and children. 

It was in September 1781, lliat Arnold descended liiie a Destroying .\tl- 
gel upon the homes of Connecticut. Tortured by a Remorse, that never 
for a moment took its vulture beak from his heart, fired by a hope to please 
the King who had bought him, he went with men and horses, swords and 
torches, to desolate the scenes of his childhood. 

Do you sec this beautiful river, llowing so calmly on beneath the light of 
the stars ? Flowing so silently on, with the valleys, the hills, the orchards 
and the plains of Counccliciit on either shore. 

On one side you behold the slumbering town, with the outlines of Fort 
Trumbull rising above its roofs ; on the other, a dark and massive pile, 
pitched on the summit of rising hills, Fort Griswold. 

All is very still and dark, but suddenly two columns of light break into 
the star-lit sky. One here from Fort Trumbull, another over the opposite 
shore, from Fort Griswold. This column marks the career of Arnold and 
his men, that the progress of his Broliier in Murder. 

While New liondon baptized in blood and tlames, rings with death- 
groans, there are heard the answering shout of ^lurder, from tiie heiglits of 
the Fort on the opposite shore. 

While Benedict Arnold stands in the steeple, surveying the work of 
assassins, yonder in Fort Griswold a brave young man, who finds ail de- 
fence in vain, rushes toward the British officer and surrenders his sword. 

By the light of the musquct flash we behold the scene. 

Here the young American, his uniform torn, his manly countenance 



THE THREE WORDS. 283 

marked with the traces of the fight. Tliere the British leader, clad in his 
red uniform, with a scow! darkening his red round face. 

The American presents his sword ; you see tlie Briton grasp it by tlie 
hilt, and with an oath drive it through that American's heart, transfixing 
him witli his own blade ! 

British magnanimity ! Now it chains Napoleon to the Rock of St. 
Helena, poisoning the life out of him with the persecutions of a Knighted 
Tookey, now it hangs the Irish Hero Emmet, because he dared to strike 
one blow for his native soil, now it coops a few hundred Scottish men and 
women in the ravine of Glencoe, and slioots and burns them to death ! 

British mercy ! Witness it, massacre ground of Paoli witness it, gibbet 
of the martyred Hayne, hung in Charleston in presence of his son, witness 
it, corse of Leydard stabbed in Fort Griswold with your own surrendered 
sword ! 

Do not mistake me, do not charge me with indulging a narrow and con- 
tracted national hatred. To me, there are even two Nations of England, 
two kinds of Englishmen. The England of Byron and Shakspeare and 
Bulwer, I love from my heart. The Nation of Milton, of Hampden, of 
Sidney, I hold to form but a portion of tliat great commonwealth of free- 
dom, in whicli JeR'erson, Henr}', and Washington were brothers. 

But there is an England that I abhor ! There is an Englishman that I 
despise ! It is that England which finds its impersonation in the bloody 
imbecile George the Third, as weak as he was wicked, as blind as he was 
cruel, a drivelling idiot, doomed in his reign of sixty years, to set brother 
against brother, to flood the American Continent with blood, to convulse a 
world with his plunders, and feel at last the Judgment of God in his blighted 
reason, his demoralized family, his impoverished nation. 

Behold him'take the crown, a young and not unhandsome man with the 
fairest' hopes blossoming round him ! Behold him during the idiocy of 
forty years, wandering along that solitary corridor of his palace, day after 
day, his lip fallen, his eye vacant, his beard moistened by his tears, while 
grasping motes with his hands he totters before us, a living witness of the 
Divine Ri<jht of Kings. 

And yet they talk of his private virtues ! He was such a good, amiable 
man, and gave so many half-pence to the poor ; he even took a few shillings 
from the millions wrung from the nation, to pamper his royal babes, and 
bestowed them in charity, mark 3'ou, upon the — People whom he had 
robbed ! 

I willingly admit his private virtues. But when the King goes up to 
Judgment, to answer for his Crimes, will you tell me what becomes of 
the— Man ? 

There is a kind of Englishman that I despise, or if you can coin a word 
to express the fullness of honest contempt, speak it, and I will echo you ! 

Behold the embodiment of this Englishman in (he person of George the 



284 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

Foiirlh, who af'.pr a life ricli only in ilie fruits of inf;imy, nfter long years of 
elaborate pollution, after makini^ liis court a brotlicl the very air in which 
he walked a breathing pestilence, went groaning one fine morning from liia 
perfumed chamber, to an unwept, a detested grave ! 

On that grave, not one flower of virtue bloomed ; on that dishonored 
corse, lying in state, not one tear of pity fell. The meanest felon, may 
receive on his cold face one farewell tear — all the infamous tyrannies, enacted 
beside the death-bed of Napoleon, could not prevent ilie tears of brave men 
and heroic women, falling like rain, upon his noble brow. But will you 
tell me, the name of the human thing, that shed one tear — only one — over 
George the Fourth ? 

It is thoughts like these, that stir my blood, when I am forced, to record 
the diistardly deeds, performed by Hrilish lierelinss in our Revolution. 

'J'hat single corse of the lioroic I,eydard, slabbed with his own sword, 
should speak to us with a vice, as eternal as the Justice of Heaven ! 

AVhile he laid, cold and stiff, on the floor of the conquered fort, the flames 
from the burning town spread to the vessels in the river and In the light of blaz- 
ing roofs and sails, Benedict Arnold looked his last upon his childhood's home. 



Soon aficrward he sailed from our shores, and came back no more. From 
this time, forth wherever he went, three whispered words followed him, 
singing through his ears inlo his heiirt — Arnold the Th.vitor. 

When he stood beside his king in the House of Lords — the weak old 
man, whispered in familiar tones to his gorgeously atlired General — a 
whisper crept ihrauiih the thronged Senate, faces were turned, finsrers ex- 
tended, and as the whisper deepened into a murmur, one venerable liOrd 
arose and staled that he loved liis Sovereign, but could not speak to him, 
while by his side there stood — Arnold the Traitor. 

He went to the theatre, parading his warrior form, amid the fairest flowers 
of British nobility and beauty, but no sooner was his visage seen, than the 
■whole audience rose — the Lord in his cushioned seal, the vagrant of Lon- 
don in the gallery — they rose toijelher, while from the pit to the dome 
echoed the crv — "Arnold the Traitor ?" 

When he issued from his gorgeous mansion, the liveried servant, that ate 
his bread, and earned it too, by menial oflices, whispered in contempt, to 
his fellow lacquey as he took his position behind his Master's carriage — 
Benedict Arnold the Traitor. 

One day, in a shadowy room, a mother and two daughlere, all attired in 
the weeds of mourning, were grouped in a sad circle, gazing upon a picture 
shrowded in crape. A visitor now advanced ; the mother took his card 
from the hands of the servant, and the dauglilers heard his name. "Go ?" 
said that mother, rising with a flushed face, while a daughter took each hand 
— "Go ! and tell the man, tliat my threshhohl can never be crossed by tlie 
murderer of my son — by Arnold the Traitor.'' 



THE THREE WORDS. 285 

Grossly insulteJ in a public place, he appealed to the company — noble 
.onls and reverend men were there — and breasting his antagonist with his 
fierce brow, he spat full in his face. His antagonist was a man of tried 
courage. He coolly wiped the saliva from his cheek. "Time may spit 
upon me, but I never can pollute my sword by killing — Arnold the Trai- 
tor !" 

He left London. He engaged in commerce. His ships were on the 
ocean, his warehouses in Nova Scotia, his plantations in the West Indies. 
One night his warehouse was burned to ashes. The entire population of 
St. John's — accusing the owner of acting the part of incendiary, to his own 
property, in order to defraud the insurance companies-assembled in that 
British town, in sight of his very widow, they hung an effigy, inscribed 
with these words — "Arnold the Traitor." 

When the Island of Guadalope was re-taken by the French, he was 
among tlie prisoners. He was put aboard a French prison-ship in the har- 
bor. His money — thousands of yellow guineas, accumulated through the 
course of years — was about his person. Afraid of his own name, he called 
himself John Anderson ; the name once assumed by John Andre. He 
deemed himself unknown, but the sentinel approaching him, whispered that 
he was known and in great danger. He assisted him to escape, even aided 
him to secure his treasure in an empty cask, but as the prisoner, gliding 
down the side of the ship, pushed his raft toward the shore, that sentinel 
looked after him, and in broken English sneered — "Arnold the Traitor !" 

There was a day, when Tallyrand arrived in Havre, hot-foot from Paris. 
It was in the darkest hour of the French Revolution. Pursued by the 
blood-hounds of the Reign of Terror, stripped of every wreck of poverty 
or power, Tallyrand secured a passage to America, in a ship about to sail. 
He was going a beggar and a wanderer to a strange land, to earn his bread 
by daily labor. 

"Is there any American gentleman staying at your house ?" he asked the 
Landlord of his Hotel — "I am about to cross tlie water, and would like a 
letter to some person of inlluence in the New World — " 

The Landlord hesitated for a moment, and then replied : 

"There is a gentleman up stairs, either from America or Britain, but 
whether American or Englishman, I cannot tell." 

He pointed the way, and Tallyrand — who in his life, was Bishop, Prince, 
Prime Minister — ascended the stairs. A venerable supplicant, he stood 
before the stranger's door, knocked and entered. 

In the far corner of a dimly lighted room, sat a gentleman of some fifty 
. years, his arms folded and his head bowed on his breast. From a window 
directly opposite, a flood of light poured over his forehead. His eyes, 
looking from beneath the downcast brows, gazed in Tall3'rand's face, with 
a peculiar and searciiing expression. His face was striking in its outline ; 
the mouth and chin indicative of an iron will. 

34 



286 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

His form, vigorous even wiili t!ic snows of fifty winters, was clad in a 
dark but ricli and lUslinguislied costume. 

Tallyrand advanced — stated that lie was a fugitive — and under llie im- 
pression, that the gentleman before him was an American, be solicited his 
kind offices. 

He poured forth his story in eloquent French and broken English. 
" I am a wanderer — an exile. I am forced to fly to the New World, 
wiliiout a friend or a liope. You are an American ? Give me, then, I be- 
seech you, a letter of introduction to some friend of yours, so that I may be 
enabled to earn my bread. I am willing to toil in any manner — the scenes 
of Paris have filled me with such horror, that a life of labor would be Para- 
disc, to a career of luxury in France — you will give me a letter to ono of 
your friends ? A geiilleman like )-ou, has doubtless, many friends — " 

The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Tallyrand never forgot, 
he retreated toward the door of the next ciiamber, still downcast, his eyes 
still looking from beneath his darkened brows. 

He spoke as he retreated backward : his voice was full of meaning. 
" / urn the only man, born in the New World, that can raise his hand 
to God, and say — I have not onk friend — not one — in all America." 

Tallyrand never forgot the overwhelming sadness of that look, which 
accompanied these words. 

" Who are you?"' he cried, as the strange man retreated toward the next 
room — " Your name ?' 

" My name — '' with a smile that had more of mockery than joy in its 
convulsive expression — " My name is Benedict ^Qrnohl.^' 

He was gone. Tallyrand sank into a chair, gasping the words — " Arnold 
THE Traitor." 

— Thus you see, he wandered over the earth, another Cain, with the 
murderer's mark upon his brow. Even in the secluded room of that Inn, 
at Havre, his crime found him out and faced him, to tell his name, tiiat 
name the synonomy of infamy. 

The last twenty years of his life, are covered with a cloud, from whose 
darkness, but a few gleams of light (lash out upon the page of history. 

The manner of his death is not distinctly known. But we cannot doubt 
that he died utterly friendless, that his cold l)row was unmoistened by one 
farewell tear, that Remorse pursued him to the grave, whispering John 
Andre ! in his ears, and that the memory of his course of glory, gnawed 
like a canker at his heart, murmuring forever, ' true to your country, what 
might you have been, O, Arnold the Traitor !' 

In the closing scene of this wild drama. I have dared to paint the agony 
of his death-hour, with a trembling hand and hushed breath, I have lifted 
the curtain from the death-bed of Benedict .\rnold. 



ARNOLD: HIS GLORY, HIS WRONGS, HIS CRIMES. 287 



XXV.- ARNOLD : HIS GLOKY, IIIS WRONGS, HIS CRIMES. 

Did you ever, reader, journey among ilark mounlains, on a stormy niglit, 
with hideous gulfs yawning beneath your feet, the lightning enveloping your 
form, witli its vivid liglit— more terrible from the blackness tiiat followed— 
the thunder howling in your ears, while afraid to proceed or go back, you 
stood appalled, on the verge of a tremendous chasm, which extended deep 
and black for half a mile below ? 

Did you ever after a journey like this, ascend the last mountain top in 
your path, behold the clouds roll from the scene of last night's danger, and 
the eastern sky, glowing with the kiss of a new-born day ? Tiien you 
surveyed the past terror with a smile, and counter the chasms, and measured 
the dark ways with a look of calm observation. 

So, after our dark and fearful journey over Arnold's life, do we reach 
the last mountain top, and the day breaks over us. Not upon him, dawns 
the blessed light— ah, no ! But upon us it glows, and we will now look 
back upon the long track of his deeds, the waste of his despair, spread far 

behind us. 

Yes, our journey is near its end. The pleasant valleys of the Brandy- 
wine will soon invite us to their shadows, soon we will repose beside tlicir 
clear waters, and drink the perfume of their flowers, while we listen to the 
Leaends of Battle, and Love, and Supernatural beauty, that rise like spirits 
from those mound-like hills. Yet ere we pass to tiiose shades of Romance 
and Dreams, let us, at one bold sweep, survey the life of Arnold, his Glory, 
his Wrongs, his Crimes. 

He was born at Norwich, Connecticut, on the 3d of January, 1740. 

At the age of sixteen, he ran away and joined the British army, was 
stationed at Ticonderoga, but unable to endure either the restraint oi disci- 
pline,or the insults of power, he deserted and returned home. 

He was now the only son of a devoted Motiier. Left by a drunken father, 
to the tender mercies of a World, which is never too gentle to the widow 
or the orphan, his character was formed in neglect and iiardship. He was 
apprenticed to a druggist, and after his apprenticeship removed to New 

Haven. , , , 

He next became a merchant, shipping horses and cattle and provisions 
to the West Indies, and commanding his own vessel. In the West indies, 
his ardent temper involved him in a duel. His strong original genius, soon 
led him in the way to wealth ; his precipitate enterprize into bankruptcy. 

He married at New Haven, a lady named Mansfield, who bore him three 
=ons, Benedict, Richard, and Henry. The first inherited tlie father's tem-_ 
per, and met an untimely end. The others settled in Canada after the war: 
thc'wife died at the dawn of the Revoluliou. 



289 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

One sister, a noble-hearted woman, Hannah Arnold, clunof to him in all 
the chan^^cs of his life, and never for an hour swerved from tlie holy tender- 
ness of a sister's fiilli. 

In Mav, 177.'), lie shared with Ethan Allen, the glory of Ticonderoga. 

In Scptcmhcr, 177.'), with such men as Daniel Mnrcran, the great llille- 
iiian, and Christopher Greene, afterward tlie hero of Red Hank, under his 
command, ton-ether with eleven hundred men, he commenced his expedition 
throun;!i the Wilderness, to Quebec. After two niontiis of sulVering and 
hariisiiip, without a parallel in our history, he arrived at Point Levy, oppo- 
site (Jiicliec, having accomplished a deed tiiat conferred immortal honor to 
his name. 

On the last day of the year, 1775, he led the attack on Quebec. Con- 
gross awarded him for ids gallant expedition and brilliant attack, witii the 
commission of brigadier general. 

After the campaign of Canada was over, Arnold was accused of miscon- 
duct in seizing certain goods at Montreal. The testimony of tiie first his- 
torian in our country, proves, that in the removal of these goods, he was 
neitlier practising any secret manopuvrCj nor did he endeavor to retain them 
in iiis possession. It is well to bear these truths in mind : the ciiarge of 
misconduct at Montreal, has been suffered almost lo grow into history. 

He was next appointed to the command of a fleet on Lake Champlain. 
The nation rung wilii the fame of his deeds. On the water, as on the land, 
his indomitable genius bore down all opposition. 

A week before the battle of Trenton, he joined Washington's Camp, on 
the west side of the Delaware, remained with the Chieftain three days, and 
then hastened to Providence, in order lo meet the invaders on the New 
England coast. 

In February, 1777, the first glaring wrong was visited upon his head. 
Congress appointed five new major generals, without including him in the 
list: all were his juniors in rank, and one was from the militia. Washing- 
ton was astonished and surprised at this measure ; he wrote a letter lo 
Arnold, stating " that the promotion which was due lo your seniority, was 
not overlooked for want of merit in j-ou." 

AVhile on a journey from Providence to Philadelphia, where he intended 
to demand an investigation of his conduct, he accomplished the brilliant 
affair of Danbury. 

Congress heard of this exploit, and without delay, Arnold was promoted 
to the rank of Major General. With an inconsistency not Easily explained, 
the date of his commission was still left below the other live major 
generals. 

We next behold him in Philadelphia, boldly demanding an investigation 
of his character, at the hands of Congress. The Board of War, to whom 
all charges were referred, after examining all the papers, and conversing 
with the illustrious Carrol, (Commissioner at Montreal) declared that the 



ARNOLD: HIS GLORY, HIS WRONGS, HIS CRIMES. 289 

chnracler and conduct of General Arnold had been groundlessly and cruelly 
aspersed. 

Congress confirmed that report, complimented Arnold with the gift of an 
elegantly capari^^oned horse, yet still neglected to restore him to his hard- 
won rank. This was the best way that could have been adopted to worry 
a brave man into madness. 

While his accounts lingered in the hands of Congress, Arnold was ap- 
pointed to command the army then convening in the vicinity of Philadel- 
phia. This duty he discharged with his usual vigor. 

At last, chafed by the refusal of Congress to setde his accounts, and 
adjust his rank, lie resigned his commission in these words : 

" / am ready to risli rnij life for my Coimlry, hut honor is a sacrifice 
that no vian ought to make — " 

At this crisis came llie news of tlie fall of Ticonderoga, and the approach 
of a formidable Army under Burgoyne. On the same day that Congress 
received the resignation, tliey also received a letter from Washington, re- 
commending that Arnold should be immediately sent to join the northern 
army. 

"He is active, judicious, and brave, and an officer in ivhoia the militia 
wilt repose great confidence.''^ 

This was the language of Washington. 

Arnold did not liesitate a moment. He took up his sunrd once more, 
only hoping liiat liis claims would be lieard, after he had fought the battles 
of his cou'ilrs'. 

He even consented to be commanded in the northern army, by General 
St. Clair, who had been promoted over his head. With all his rashness, 
all his sense of hitler wrong and causeless neglect, on tliis occasion, he acted 
■with heroic mngnanimitv. 

In the two Battles of Saratoga, the one fought on September the 19lh, 
and the action of Oct. 7th, Arnold was at once the General and the Hero. 
From 12 o'clock, until night on the 19th, the battle was fought entirely by 
Arnold's division, with the exception of a single regiment from another bri- 
gade. There was no general officer on the field during the day. Near 
night, Col. T,ewis, arriving from the sc5ne of action, stated that its progress 
was undecisive. " I will soon put an end to it," exclaimed Arnold, and set 
off in full gallop for the field. 

Gates was so far forgetful of justice, as to avoid mentioning the name of 
Arnold or his division in his despatches. A quarrel ensued, and Arnold 
resigned his command. , 

On the 7th of Oct., without a command, he rushed to the field and led 
the Americans to victory. "It is a singular fact," says Sparks, "that an 
officer, who really had no command in the army, was leader in one of the 
most important and spirited battles of the Revolution." 

At last Congress gave him the full rank which he claimed. 



290 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

If ever a man won Ms way to rank, by heaping victory on victory, that 
man was Benetlict Arnold. 

In -May, 1778, .\rnold joined the army at Valley Forge. 

But a short time elapsed ere he established his headquarters in Phila- 
delphia, as Military Governor or Commander. 

Here, he proiiibited the sale of all goods in the city, until a joint Coni- 
millee of Congress and the Provincial Council should ascertain, whether 
any of the property belonged to King George or his subjects. This mea- 
sure, of course sanciioned by Washington and Congress, surrounded him 
with enemies, who wore increased in number and malignancy, by his im- 
petuous temper, his luxurious style of living, and his manifest consciousness 
of fame and power. 

He had not been a month at Philadelphia, ere he solicited a command in 
the navy. 

It was at iliis time, that he sent five hundred dollars, out of his contracted 
means, to the orphan children of Warren, and pressed their claims upon 
the notice of Congress. — Six weeks before the consummation of his trcacherv, 
he sent a letter to Miss Scollay, who protected the hero's children, an- 
nouncing that he had procured from Congress, the sum of thirteen hundred 
dollars, for their support and education. — 

Soon after he assumed command in Philadelphia, he married Miss Ship- 
pen, a beautiful girl of eighteen, daughter of a gentleman, favorable to the 
King, and an intimate acquaintance of John Andre. This marriage encircled 
Arnold with a throng of Tory associates. So familiar was the intimacy of 
his wife with John Andre, tliat she corresponded with him, after the British 
left the city and returned to New York. 

His enemies now began their work. A list of charges against him, with 
letters and papers was presented to Congress, by General Joseph Keed, 
President of Pennsylvania, and referred to a committee of inquiry. 

That Committee vindicated Arnold from anj- criminality in the matters 
charged against him. 

Congress did not act upon their report, but referred the matter to a joint 
Committee of their body and of the Assembl)' and Council of Pennsylvania. 

At last, Washington ordered a Court Alarlial, and gave notice to the 
respective parties. 

The accusers were not ready at the appointed time. The trial was put 
off " to allow them to collect evidence." 

Three months had now elapsed since the charges were first presented to 
Congress. 

On the 18lh of March, 1770, Arnold resigned his commission. 

The day linally agreed upon, was the 1st of June, 1779, the place, 
Middlebrook. , 

At this time the enemy in New York made threatening demonstrations, 
and the Court Martial was again postponed. 



ARNOLD: HIS GLORY. HIS WRONGS, HIS CRIMES. 291 

AriMkI then formed the project of forming a settlement for tlie solJier^j 
a-nd officers who had served under liim. He wished to obtain the grant of 
a tract of land in Western New York. The members of Congress from 
that state seconded his wishes, and wrote a joint letter to Governor Chnton, 
soliciting his aid : 

— " To you Sir, or to our state, General Arnold can require no rccomnien- 
elation : a series of distinguished services, entitle him to respect and 
favor " 

The President of Congress, the virtuous Jay, enforced the same applica- 
tion in a private letter to Governor Clinton. He said — 
— " Generosity to Arnold will be Justice to the Slate." — 

These testimonies speak for themselves. AVas Arnold without noble and 
virtuous friends ? 

Still with the odium of an "unconvicted criminal" upon his head, he was 
attacked by a Mob, his person assaulted and his house surrounded. In 
tones of bitter indignation he demanded a guard from Congress, and was 
refused. 

Time wore on, and the trial came at last; It commenced at Morristown, 
on the 20th of December, and continued until the 2Gth of January 1780. 

He was thoroughly acquitted on the first two charges ; the other too 
were sustained in part, but not so far as to imply a criminal intention. 
He gave a written protection, (while at Valley Forge,) for a vessel to pro- 
ceed to sea. He used the baggage wagons of Pennsylvania. These were 
liis oflences ; for these he was sentenced to be reprimanded by Washington. 

At least thirteen months had passed, from the time of the first accusation 
until he was brought to trial. In the course of this time, he made his first 
approaches of Treason. 

Plunged into debt, he wished to enter the service of the French King, .Jl 
to join an Indian tribe, to betray his country to the British. The 
French Minister met his offer with a pointed refusal, his mysterious propo- 
sition to become the Chief of the red men, was never carried into ettect ; 
the only thing that remained, the betrayal of his country, was now to be 
accomplished. 

Supported by powerful influence, he obtained command of AVest Point. 
He had corresponded for some months with Sir Henry Clinton, through 
the letters of his wife to Major Andre. Andre affixed to his letter the sig- 
nature, /o/ui Anderson, and Arnold was known as Gustavus. Andre from 
a mere correspondent and friend of the wife, was at last selected as the 
great co-partner in the work of Treason. He was raised to the position of 
Adjutant General, and when the fall of West Point was accomplished, was 
to be created a Brigadier General. 

The Conspirators met within tiie American lines ; by some inexplicable 
mistake Andre failed to go on board the Vulture, attempted to return to New 
York by land, and was captured by Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert. 



292 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

He was capliired on the 23d of September, 1780. On the 23ili, Arnold 
escaped to tlic Vulture. On the 2nd of October, at twelve o'clock, Andre 
was lunig. 

In May 1781, Arnold returned to New York from Virginia, thus nar- 
rowly escaping the capilulalioii of Yorklown ; in Srptemlier he laid New 
I.ondon ill ashes ; and in Ucceniber he sailed fiom the Continent for 
England. 

Thus i)lainly in short sentences and abrupt paragraphs, without the least 

attempt at eloquence or display, you have the prominent points of Arnold's 
career before you. 

Judge every heart for itself, liie mystery of his wonderful life ! 

A friendless boy becomes a merchant, a man of wealth, a bankrupt, a 
drugffist. From the dnigirist he suddenly flaslics into tiie Hero of the Wil- 
derness and Quebec, the Victor of Cliamplain and Saratoga. In renown as 
a soldier and general, having no superior save Washington, he is constantly 
pursued by charges, and as constantly meets them face to face. The best 
men of the nation love him, Washington is his friend, and yet after the tor- 
ture of lliirteen months delay, his accusers press their charges home, and 
he is disgraced for using the public wagons of Pennsylvania. 

Married to a beautiful wife, he uses her letters to an intimate friend as 
the vehicles of his treason, and afterwards meets that friend as a brother 
conspirator. Resolved tq betray his country, he docs not frankly break his 
sword, and before all the world proclaim himself a friend of the King, but 
in darkness and mystery plans the utter ruin of Washington's army. 

His star rises at Quebec, culminates at Saratoga, and sets in eternal night 
in the reprimand of ^Morristown. When it appears again, it is no longer a 
star, but a meteor streaming along a midnight sky, and flashing a sepulchral 
light over the ruins of a world. 

The track of his glory covers the space of five years. 

When we contemplate his lile, we at once scorn and pity, despise and 
admire, frown and weep. His strange story convulses us with ail imagina- 
ble emotion. So much light, so much darkness, so much glory, so much 
dishonor, so much meanness, so much magnanimity, so much iron-hearted 
despair, so much womanly tenderness in the form of Henedicl Arnold ! In 
the lonely hours of night, when absorbed in the books which tell of him, or 
searching earnestly the memorials which are left on the track of time, to 
record his career, I have fell the tears come to my eyes, and the blood beat 
more tumultuously at my heart. 

If there is a thing under Heaven, that can wring the heart, it is to see a 
Great Man deformed by petty passions, a Heroic Soul plunged all at once 
into the abyss of infiimy. W'e all admire Genius in its eagle llight — but 
who has the courage to behold its fall ? 

To SCO the Eagle that soared so proudly toward the rising sun, fall with 
broken wing and lorn breast into the roadside mire — to see the white 



THE RIGHT ARM. 293 

column that rose so beaiilifiilly through the night of a desert waste, the 
memorial of some immortal deed, suddenly crumble into dust — to see the 
form lliat we have loved as a holy thing, in a moment change into a leprous 
derormily — Who would not weep ? 

And then llirough the mist of sixty-seven years, the agonized words of 
Washington thrills us with deep emotion — " Whom — " he cried, " Whom 

CAN WE TRUST NOW ?" 

You may not be able to appreciate my feelings when I survey the career 
of Arnold, but you will in any event, do justice to the honesty of my pur- 
pose. Arnold has not one friend, on the wide earth of God, unless indeed 
liis true-hearted sister survives. His name is a Blot, his memory a Pesti- 
lence. Therefore no mercenary considerations sway me in this my solemn 
task. Had money been my object, 1 might have served it Ivettcr, liy writ- 
ing certain Traitors into Heroes, and believe mb there are plenty of grand- 
children, with large .'brtunes, wlio would pay handsomely to have it done. 

But Arnold — where is there a friend — to pay for one tear slied over his 
dishonored grave ? 

Guided by the same feeling with which I investigated the character of 
Washington, and found it more Pure and Beautiful than even the dull history 
tells it, 1 liave taken up Arnold and looked at him in every light, and to his 
good and evil, rendered — Jdstick. 

Those who expect to find in my pages, a minute record of his ])etty 
faults — how he burnt grasshoppers when a little boy, or swindled grown 
men out of fine black horses, when a warrior — will be wofully disappointed. 

It may be true that he defrauded some one of the price of a horse, but 
while we abuse him for the deed, let us at least remember, that he had a 
strange way of killing his horses throughout the war. It was his chance 
to ride ever in the front of the fight. Then as he plunged into the jaws of 
Death, snatching the laurel leaf of victory from the brow of a skull, hie 
horse would fall under him, gored by a chain-shot, or rent by a camion ball. 

It was my intention to have drawn a portrait of his character, in conclu- 
sion of this Tragedy, to have compared him with the heroes and ac- 
cursed ones of olden times, but the pen drops from my hand 

I can only say — 

Lucifer was the Son of the Morning, brightest and most beautiful of all 
the hosts of Heaven. Pride and Ambition worked his ruin. But when he 
fell, the angels were bathed in tears. 

XXVI.— THE RIGHT ARM. 

Fifty years ago, a terrible storm shook the city of London. At the dead 
of night, when the storm was at its highest, an aged minister, living near 
one of the darkest suburbs of the city, was aroused by an earnest cry for 
lielp. Looking from his window, he beheld a rude man, clad in the coarse 

35 



294 BENEDlv.1 AKNOLD. 

attire of a sweeper of tlic public streets. In a few moments, wliile the rain 
ciiinedown in torrents, anil the storm growled above, that preacher, leaning 
on the arm ol' tlie scavenger, tiireaiied his way to tiie dark siil)urb, listening 
meanwhile to the story of the dying man. 

That verv day, a strange old man had fallen speechless, in front of the 
scavenircr's rude home. The good-hearted street-sweeper had taken him 
ill laid him on his bed — he had not once spoken — and now he was dying. 

'J'his was the story of that rough man. 

And now through dark alleys, among miserable tenements, that seemed 
about to topple down upon their heads, into the loneliest and dreariest 
suburb of the city, they passed, that white-haired minister and his guide. 
At hist into a narrow court, and up dark stairs, that cracked beneath their 
tread, and then into the death room. 

It was in truth a miserable place. 

A glimmering light stood on a broken chair. — There were the rough 
walls, there the solitary garret window, with the rain beating in, through 
the rags and straw, which stulFcd the broken panes, — and there, amid a heap 
of cold ashes, the small valise, which it seems the stranger had with him. 

In one corner, on the coarse straw of the ragged bed, lay the dying man. 
lie was but half-dressed ; his legs were concealed in long military boots. 

'i'he aged preacher drew near, and looked upon him. And as he looked, 
throb — throb — throb — you might hear the death-watch ticking in the shat- 
tered wall. 

It was the form of a strong man, grown old with care more than age. 

There was a face, that you might look upon but once, and yet wear in 
your memory for ever. 

Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face : A bold forehead, 
seamed by one deep wrinkle between the brows — long locks of dark hair, 
sprinkled wiUi grey — lips firmly set, yet quivering as though they had a 
life, separate from the life of the man — and then two large eyes, vivid, 
burning, unnatural in their steady glare. 

All, there was something so terrible in that face — something so full of 
unutterable loneliness, unspeakable despair — that the aged minister started 
back in horror. 

But look ! Those strong arms are clutching at the vacant air — the death- 
sweat starts in drops upon that bold brow — the man is dying. 

Throb — throb — throb — beats the death-watch in the shattered wall. 

"Would you die in the faith of the Christian '." faltered the preacher, as 
lae knelt there, on the damp door. 

The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled, but made no sound. 
Then, with the strong agony of death upon him, he rose into a silting 
posture. Kor the first time, he spoke: 

"Christian !" he echoed in that deep tone, which thrilled the preacher to 
the heart, "will that faith give me back my honor .' Come with me, old 



THE RIGHT ARM. 295 

man — come with me, fai- over the waters. Hah ! we are there ! This is 
my native town. Yonder is tlie church in which I iinell in chiMhood — 
yonder tiie green on which I sported when a boy. But another flag waves 
yonder in place of the flag that waved when I was a child. And listen, 
old man, where I to pass along the street, as I passed when but a child, the 
very babes in their cradles would raise their tiny hands and curse me. 
The graves in yonder graveyard would shrink from my footsteps, and yonder 
flag — would rain a baptism of blood upon my head ?" 

That was an awful death-bed. The minister had watched the "last 
night" with a hundred convicts in their cells, and yet never beheld a scene 
so terrible as this. 

Suddenly the dying man arose. He tottered along the floor. With those 
white fingers, whose nails are blue with the death-cliill, he threw open the 
valise. He drew from thence a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, an 
old parchment, a piece of damp cloth, that looked like the wreck of a 
battle-flag. 

" Look ye, priest, this faded coat is spotted with my blood !" he cried, as 
old memories seemed stirring at his heart. "This coat I wore, when I 
first heard the news of Lexington — this coat I wore, when I planted the 
banner of the stars on Ticonderoga ! That bullet-hole was pierced in the 
fight of Quebec ; and now — I am a — let me whisper it in your ear !" 

He hissed that single, burning word into the minister's ear. 

" Now help me, priest," he said, in a voice grown suddenly tremulous ; 
" help me to put on this coat of blue and silver. For you see — " and a 
ghastly smile came over his face — " there is no one here to wipe the cold 
drops from my brow ; no wife — no child — I must meet death alone ; but I 
will meet him, as I have met him in battle, without a fear !" 

And while he stood arraying his limbs in that worm-eaten coat of blue 
and silver, the good preacher spoke to him of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that 
great faith, which pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back 
from the face of God. 

" Faith !" echoed that strange man, who stood there, erect, with the 
death-chill on his brow, the death-light in his eye. " Faith ? Can it give 
me back my honor ? Look, ye priest, there over the waves, sits George 
AVashington, telling to his comrades, the pleasant story of tlie eight years' 
war — there in his royal halls sits George of England, bewailing in his idiot 
voice, the loss of his Colonies. And here am I — I — who was the first to 
raise the flag of freedom, the first to strike a blow against that King — here 
am L dying, ah, dying like a dog !" 

The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look of the dying man, 
while throb — throb — throb — beat the death-watch in the shattered wall. 

" Hush ! silence along the lines there !" he muttered, in that wild absent 
tone, as though speaking to the dead ; " silence along the lines ! Not a 
word, not a word on peril of your lives. Hark you, Montgomery, we will 



206 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

meet in the centre of the town. We will meet there, in victory, or die !— 
Hist ! Silence, my men — not a whisper, as we move up these sleep rocks ! 
Now on, my boys, now on ! Men of the Wilderness, we will gain the 

town ! Now up wilh the banner of the stars — up with l!ie flag of freedom, 

thou<Th the nii'ht is dark and the snow falls ! Now — now — " shrieked that 
death stricken man, towering there, in the blue uniform, with his clenched 
hands waving in the air — " now, now ! One blow more, and Quebec is 
ours !" 

And look ! His eye grows glassy. With that word on his, he stands 
there — ah, what a hideous picture of despair, erect, livid, ghasdy ! There 
for a moment, and then lie falls ! He is dead ! 

Ah, look at that proud form, thrown cold and stifT upon the damp floor. 
In that glassy eye there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy — a sublimity 
of despair. 

AVho is this strange man, dying here alone, in this rude garret — this man, 
v.'ho, in all his crimes, sliU treasured up that blue uniform, lliat faded flag ? 

Who is this being of horrible remorse ? — this man, whose memories seem 
to link something of heaven, and more of hell ? 

liBt us look at that parchment and flag 

The aged minister unrolls that faded flag — it is a blue banner, gleaming 
wilh thirteen stars. 

He unrolls that parchment. It is a colonel's commission in the Conti- 
nental army, addressed to — Benedict Arnold ! 

And there, in that rude hut, while tlie death-watch throbbed like a heart 
in the shattered wall — -'there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of deso- 
lation, lay the corse of the Patriot and the Traitor. 

0, that our own true Washington had been there, to sever that good right 
arm from the corse, alid while the dishonored body rotted into dust, to bring 
home that good right arm, and embalm it among the holiest memories of 
the Past. — 

For that right arm struck many a gallant blow for freedom, yonder at 
Ticonderoga, at Quebec, Champlain, and Saratoga — that arm, yonder, 

DENEATH THE SNOW-WHITE MOUNTAIN, IN THE DEEP SILENCE OF THE RIVER 
OF THE DEAD, FIRST RAISED INTO LIGHT THE BaN.NER OF THE StARS. 



iXt 



BOOK FOURTH. 

THE BATTLE OF BRANDTWINE. 



(297) 



I 



THE BATTLE OF ERANDYWINE. 



I.— THE GLORY OF TUB LAND OF PENN. 

Beautiful iii her solitary grandeur — fair as a green island in a desert 
waste, proud as a lonely column, reared in the wilderness — rises the land 
of Penn, in the History of America. 

Here, beneath the Elm of Siiackamaxon, was first reared tlie holy altar 
of Toleration. 

Here, from the halls of the old State House, was first proclaimed, that 
Bible of the Rights of Man — the Declaration of Independence. 

Here, William Penn asserted the mild teachings, of a Gospel, whose 
every word was Love. Here, Franklin drew down the lightnings from the 
sky, and bent the science of ages to the good of toiling man. Here, Jeffer- 
son stood forth, the consecrated Prophet of Freedom, proclaiming, from 
Independence Hall, the destiny of a Continent, the freedom of a People. 

Here, lliat band of men, compared to whom the Senators of Rome dwin- 
dle into parish demagogues, — the Continental Congress — held their solemn 
deliberations, with the halter and the axe before their eyes. 

New England we love for her Adams', her Hancocks, and her AVarrens. 
Her battlefields of Bunker Hill and Concord and Lexington, speak to us 
with a voice that can never die. The South, too, ardent in her fiery blood, 
luxuriant in flowers and fruits, we love for her Jefferson, her Lees, her im- 
mortal Patrick Henry. Not a rood of her soil but is richer for the martjT 
blood of heroes. 

But while we love the No^tji or the South for their Revolutionary glories, 
we must confess that the land of Penn claims a glory higher and holier than 
either. Tlie glory of llie Revolution is hers, but the mild light of science 
irradiates her hills, the pure Gospel of William Penn shines forever over 
the pages of her past. 

While we point to Maryland for her Calvert and her Carroll, to Jersey 
for her Witherspoon, to Delaware for her Kirkwood and M'Lane — while 
we bow to the Revolutionary lame of New England and the South, we 
must confess that the land of Penn has been miserably neglected by history. 
It is a singular fact, that while all other Slates have their eulogists, their 
historians, and their orators, to speak of iheir past glory, their present pros- 
perity, and their present fame, yet has Pennsylvania been neglected ; site 

{•Z99) 



300 THE BATTLE Ol' liRANDYWINE. 

has been slighted by ihe historian ; lier triumphs and her glories have been 
made a matter of sparse and general narrative. 

Our own fair land of Penn has no orator to celebrate her glories, to point 
to her past ; she has no I'ierpont to hymn her illustrious dead ; no Jared 
Sparks to clironielc her Revolutionary granduer. 

And yet the green field of (Jermantown, the twilight vale of the IJrandy- 

wine, the blood-nurtured soil of I'aoli, all have their memories of the Past, 

t 
all are stored with their sacred treasure of whitened bones. From the far 

North, old Wyoming sends forth iier voice — from her hills of granduer and 
lier vallies of beauty, she sends her voice, and at the sound the Mighty Dead 
of the land of Penn sweej) by, a solemn pageant of the Past. The char- 
acter of the Pennsylvanian has been mockingly derided, by adventurers from 
all parts of tiic Union. We have been told that our people — the Pennsyl- 
vanians — had no enterprise, no'energy, no striking and efleclive qualities. 
Southern chivalry has taunted us with our want of daring ardor in the re- 
senlmcnt of insult ; Norlhern speculation has derided our sluggishness in 
falling into all the mad adventures of these gambling and money-making times. 

To the North we make no reply. I,et our mountains, with tiieir stores 
of exhausdess wealth, answer; let the meadows of Philadelphia, the rich 
plains of old licrks, the green fields of Lancaster answer; \v.l old Susqne- 
hannah, with her people of iron nerve, and her mountain-shores of wealth 
and cultivation, send forth her reply. 

And to tli^ South — what shall be onr answer ? They ask for our illus- 
trious dead ! They point to the blood stained fields of Carolina. They ask, 
where are your tields of battle? They point to Marion — to Sumjiler — to 
Lee — to all the host of heroes who blaze along the Southern sky — " Penn- 
sylvanians, where are your heroes of the Revolution?" 

They need not ask their question more than once. For, at the sound, 
from his laurelled grave in old Chester, springs to life again, the hero of 
Pennsylvania's olden time, the undaunted General, the man of Paoli and of 
Stony Point, whose charge was like the march of the hurricane, whose 
night-assault scared the Urilish as though a th\ni4erbolt had fallen in iheirmidst. 

AVe need not repeat his name. 'J'hc aged matron, silting at the farm- 
house door of old Chester, in the calm of summer twilight, speaks that 
name to the listening group of grand-children, and the old Kevoluiioner, 
trembling on the verge of the grave, his intellect faded, his mind broken, 
and his memory gone, will start and tremble with a new life at the name, 
and as he brushes the tear from the quivering eye-lid of age, will excl.iim — 
M-ith a feeling of pride that a century cannot destroy — " I — I, too, was a 
soldier with — mad Anthony Wayne '." 

Bunker Hill has its monument. New England her historians. South Car- 
olina her orators — but the field of Gerraantinvn, and the meadows of Bran- 
dywine — where are their nion\micnlal pillars, their historians, their orators ? 

And yet the freemen of our Land of Penn may stroll over the green lawn 



THE PROPHET OF THE BRANDYWINE. 301 

of Germanlown, mark ihe caniioii-rifts on the walls of Chew's House, hear 
the veteran of the Revolution discourse of the bloodshed of the 4th of Oc- 
tober, 1777 — and count the mounds that mark the resting place of the dead, 
and feel his heart throb, and his pulse warm, although no monumental 
pillar arises from the green lawn, no trophied column consecrates the re- 
pose of the slain. 

And when the taunt falls from the lips of the wandorfr and adventurer, 
when the South sneers and the north derides, then let the Pennsylvanian 
remember that tliough the Land of Penn has no history, yet is her story 
■written on her battlefields of blood ; that though she has no marble pillars, 
or trophied columns, yet her monuments are enduring and undecaying — 
they are there — breaking evermore into the sky — her monuments are her 
own eternal mountains. 

Her dead are scattered over the Continent ; — Quebec and Saratoga, 
Camden and Bunker Hill, to this hour retain their bones ! 

Naqieless and unhonored, " Poor Men Heroes" of Pennsylvania 
sleep the last slumber on every battlefield of the Revolution. Their his- 
tory would crowd ten volumes like this ; it his never been written. 

In every spear of grass that grows on our battlefields, in every wild 
flower that blooms above the dead of the Revolution, yoi* read the quiet 
heroism of the children of the Land of Penn. 

Ee just to us, People of the North ! Do not scorn our history, Chivalry 
of the South ! 

While we gladly admit the brightness of your fame, do not utterly forget 
the nameless and neglected 

Heroks of the Land of Penn. 

ii.— the prophet of the bhandywine. 

JTiiE Alleghanics lifting their summits into the sky, while their sides are 
gorgeous with the draperies of autumn, and old Susquehanna flows grandly 
at their feet ! This is a siglit at once religious and sublime. 

The Wissahikon, flowing for miles through its dark gorge, where grey 
rocks arise and giant pines interlock their branches from opposing cliffs ! 
This is a sight of wild romance — a vision of supernatural beauty. 

But when you seek a vision of that pastoral loveliness, which fired the 
poets of Greece and Rome, — that loveliness which presents in one view, the 
ripeness of the orchard, the green slope of the meadow, the mirror-like 
beauty of tranquil waters, — then come with me to the shades of Brandywine ! 

In the southern part of old Chester County — near the line of Pennslyva- 
nia and Delaware — this valley bursts on your eye, in one vivid panorama 
of beauty and gloom. 

■It seems as tliough the hand of God, stretched out from yonder sky, had 
scattered his blessings broadcast over hill and dale. 

36 



302 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

A clear and glassy stream, now overshadowed by drooping elm or oaken 
trees, now open to llie gleam of ilie sunlight, winds along amid the recesses 
of this valley. Sloping to the cast, a plain of level earth spreads green and 
grassy — a lake of meadow — winding witli each bend of the rivulet on the 
one side, and arising on the other into massive, mound-like hills. These 
hills are baptized in beauty. Here crowded into one glowing view, you 
may behold the chesnut, the oak, and llie beech tree ; liere you njay see 
tlie brown field of upturned earth, the green corn, the golden wheat, the 
meadowy pasturage. 

It is, indeed, a lovely valh^y. 

In the summer time, those ancient farm-houses, scattered along the bed 
of the vale, look out from amid the rustic beauty of embroidered verdure. 
Each knoll is magnilirent with the foliage of its clustered trees. The wild 
vine on tiie rock, the forest llowers scattered over the ground, the grapes 
drooping in clusters from the tall trees, silence and shadow in the bushy 
dells, music and verdure on the plain — ah, it is beautiful in summer time, 
tliis valley of the meadow and rivulet. Here indeed, the verdure seems 
richer, the skies more serene ; here the hills arise with a more undulating 
grandeur, than in any other valley throughout the Continent. The Hudson 
is sublime; the Susquehanna terrible and beautiful ; the Wissahikon lone 
and supernatural in its beauty; but the witchery of the Brandywine is at 
once quiet, gentle, and full of peace. A sinless virgin with gentle thoughts 
gleaming from her mild eye, soft memories flushing over her young clieek, 
grace in her gestures and music in her voice — such is the Brandywine 
among rivers, such her valley among other valleys ! 

Far away from the Brandywine, yet within an half hour's ride in the 
centre of this Garden of the I.ord, arises an old-time church. 

Here are no towers to impress the soul with images of gloom ; no marble 
monuments to glare upon you through the nioht ; here is no majestic dome 
swelling up with the sky, with its cross gleaming in the stars. No ! 

A plain one storied fabric, stands in one corner of a small enclosure of 
dark green grass. This enclosure is fenced from the field and iiighway by 
a wall of grey stone ; this fabric, built of the same kind of stone, is sur- 
mounted by a plain roof. Such is the Meeting House, such the Graveyard 
of the Brandywine. 

Yet there are certain dim stains of blood upon those walls ; there are 
marks of bullet and cannon ball along that roof. 

I never shall forget that calm still hour, when my foot pressed the grave- 
yard sod. It was in the purple glory of an evening in fall. The sky all 
azure and gold, arched cahnly overhead. Around lay the beautiful sweep 
of hill and valley ; here an orchard heavy with ripened fruit; yonder a 
quaint old farm-house ; and far aw.iy the summit of the battle hill crowned 
with woods, rose up into the evening sky. There was a holy calmness, a 
softened sadness on the air. 



THE PROPHET OF THE BRANDYWINE 303 

Standing by that rude wall, I looked upon the mounds of the graveyard, 
and examined with a reverential glance, the most minute details of tlie old 
fabric, its walls and doors, windows and roof. As I stood there, a stranger 
and a pilgrim on that holy ground, an old man stood by my side, his wrinkled 
visage glowing with the last radiance of day. He was grey-haired. His 
dress was a plain farmer's costume, and as for his speech, althougli not a 
Quaker, he said " thee" and " thou." 

And while the silence of evening gathered round us, that old man told me 
stories of the batde-field that thrilled my blood. He was but a boy on the 
battle-day, yet he remembered the face of Washington, the look of La 
Fayette, the hearty war-shout of Anthony Wayne. He also had a memory 
of a wild dusky figure, that went crashing over the field on a black horse, 
with long flakes of dark hair flying over his shoulders. Was this the 
Count Pulaski ? 

Yet there was one legend, falling from the old man's lips, which struck 
my soul with its supernatural beauty. 

It was not the legend of the maiden, who watching the setting moon, in 
the silence of midnight, beheld a dark cloud lowering over the valley, and 
thronged with the phantoms of opposing armies. — Nor was it that wild tra- 
dition of Lord Percy, whose grave was at my feet. No ! It was a legend 
of a Sabbath day, some forty years before the battle, when Peace stood 
serene and smiling on these hills, her hands extended in blessings over the 
valley. It was a legend which impresses us witji the belief that God sends 
his warning voice to the sons of men, ere they pollute his earth with the 
blood of batde. 

More than one hundred years ago — forty years before the battle — the 
plain walls of the Quaker Meeting House arose in the calm light of a Sab- 
bath afternoon, in the first (lush of June. 

Here in the stillness of that Sabbath hour, the Quaker brethren were as- 
sembled, listening to the earnest words of the preacher, who stood in their 
midst. 

He stood there, in that rude gallery which supplied the place of pulpit 
and altar, his snow-while hair sweeping to his shoulders, while his calm 
blue eyes shone with a mild light, as he spake of the Saviour, who hung 
upon the cross, for the salvation of all mankind. 

Yes, in calm and even tones, touched with a deep pathos, he spoke of 
the life of Jesus. While his accents fell round the rude place — as the 
breeze of June came softly through the opened windows, as a vision of hill 
and valley lay there, mellowing in the light of the afternoon sun — his 
hearers were hushed into deep silence 

Yon aged Quaker there — whose white hairs had once been pressed by 
the hands of WiUiam Penn, bout his head upon his staff" and listened — yon 



304 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

bold backwoodsman, standing beside ihe open window, in his robes of fur, 
crossed liis arms upon iiis breast, as the story of the Saviour's life broke 
on his ears ; nay, even tlie wild and wandorina; Indian, won by the tones of 
the preacher's voice, dropped his knife and rifle on the graveyard sod, and 
standiii? silent and motionless in yonder door-way, listened with a mute 
W(xu!er to that strange story of Jesus. 

And there, listening also to the preacher's \vbrds, was woman ; yes, wo- 
man, with her big eyes dim with tears, her parted lips quivering with sus- 
pense, leaning forward witli clasped hands as the name of Jesus trembled 
on her ear — yes, clad in her Quaker garb, yet with all her loveliness about 
her, there was woman, listenii% to that story which she is never tired of 
hearing : the story of the Saviour and the three beautiful women, who 
watched and wept with him, and when all the world forsook him, still came 
weeping to his tomb. 

Then the old man, in a tremulous voice, pictured the horrors of that 
awful day when Jerusalem was deserted by licr people ; while Calvary 
throbbed with the beating of ten thousand hearts — when the world was 
dark, while its Saviour suspended to the cross, looked down, even in the 
moment of his agony, and beheld — woman tvalching there J 

Dilating in this great theme, that aged man began to predict the reign of 
peace over all the world. 

" This valley," he said, elevating his form, and speaking in the low deep 
tone of a prophet, " This valley shall never be stained with humaa 
blood !" 

His attitude, his voice, that uplifted hand — all were sublime. 

As he stood, a silence like the grave, prevailed throughout the Quaker 
church. 

" Here Peace, driven from the old world shall find a home at last. War 
may ravage the old world, Murder may look down upon its battle-tields, and 
Persecution light its flames ! But here, yea, here in this beautiful valley, 
shall the sons of men rear at last the altar to the Unknown God — that God 
of Peace, whose face for near two thousand years, has been hidden by the 
smoke of slaughter. Here shall be reared the altar of peace ; this valley 
shall never be stained with human blood !" 

His manner was rapt, his tone eloquent, but even as the word " Peace," 
rung from his lips, an awful change came over him. Ho stood there clasp- 
ing the railing of the pulpit with trembling hands — his brow was damp, as 
with death-sweat — his blue eye shone with a wild deep light. 

The brethren started from their seats in awe and wonder. 

" Look !" cried tiie aged preacher, in gasping tones, " Look ! The 
vision of God is upon me !" 

Then his eye was fixed upon vacancy, and in a hollow voice, as though 
some awful scene of human guilt was before his sight, he spoke this strange 
prophecy : 



THE PROPHET OF THE BRANDYWINE. 305 

" Tliis is a quiet and happy place, my bretiiren, and die Sabbadi sun- 
\ beams shine widi a mild glow upon your calm and peaceful faces ! 

"But the day cometh, yea, tbe Lord speaks, and I iiear ! The day 
cometli when those mild sunbeams shall shine through yonder windows, 
but shine upon heaps of dying, heaps of dead, piled up within these solemn 
walls '. 

" The day cometh when the red waves of battle shall roll over yonder 
meadow — when ihe quiet of these walls shall be broken by the cry of 
mortal agony, the groan of the parting soul, the blasphemy of the sinner, 
dying the death of murder, blood upon his brow, and despair in his heart ! 

" Here woman sliall weep for her husband, butchered in balde ; here the 
maiden shall place her hands upon the cold brow of her lover ; little chil- 
dren shall kneel beside the corse of the murdered father ! 

" The Lord speaks, and I listen ! 

" The sword shall gleam within these walls ; the bullet rain its iron hail 
upon this sacred roof; the hoofs of the war-horse stamp their bloody prints 
upon this floor ! 

" And yonder graveyard — do ye behold it ? Is it not beautiful, as its 
grassy mounds arise in tlie mild glow of the afternoon sun ? The day 
cometh when yon graveyard shall be choked with ghastly heaps of dead — 
broken limbs, torn corses, all crowded together in the graveyard of Peace ! 
Cold glassy eyeballs — shattered limbs — mangled bodies — crushed skulls — 
all glowing in the warm light of the setting sun ! For the Lord — for the 
Lord of Israel hath spoken it !" 

This was the prophecy, preserved in many a home of Brandywine. 

Years passed on. The old men who had heard it were with their 
fathers. The maidens who had listened to its words of omen, were grave 
matrons, surrounded by groups of laughing children. Still the prophecy 
lingered in the homes of Brandywine. Still it was whispered by the lips 
of the old to tlie ears of youth. 

At last a morning came when there was panic in the very air. The 
earth shook to the tread of legions ; the roads groaned beneath the weight 
of cannon. Suddenly a white cloud overspread the valley, and enveloped 
the Quaker temple. Then groans, shouts, curses, were lieard. The white 
cloud grew darker. It advanced far over the plain, like a barmer of colossal 
murder. It rolled around yonder hill, it lay darkening over the distant 
■waters of the Brandywine. 

At last, toward evening it cleared away. 

The sun shone mildly over the beautilul landscape; the Brandywine rip- 
pled into light from afar. 

But the beams of the sun lighted up the cold faces of the dead, with a 
ghastly glow. 

For in the fields, along the slope of yonder hill, down by the spring under 
llie wild cherry tree, in the graveyard there, and within the walls of 



306 THE CATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

tlie mcctiii,"; lioiise, were noihiiij but dead men, whoso blood drenclied the 
sod, dyed ihe waters of the spring and stained the temple floor, while their 
souls pilhiTcd in one tenible nicciiii!; around the Throne of Ood. 

The propherv liad met its fiillihucnt. 'l"he valley of I'caoe had been 
made the Gologolha of slaughter ; the house of prayer, the theatre^of blood. 

Ill— Tin; FCAR OF WAR. 

It was in llio month of September, in tlio year of our Lord, 1777, when 
tlie Torch of Ivevohilion had been blazing over the land for two long years, 
that the fear of war first startled the homes of llrandyvviiie. 

For many days the rumor was vague and shadowy ; the fear of war 
lunered in Ihe air, wilii liie awful iiulistinclnoss of the Panic, that precedes 
the I'cslllence. 

At last, the rumor took form and shape and grew into a Fact. 

General Howe, with some 17,000 well armed and disciplined soldiers. 
Lad landed on the peninsula of IMarylaiul and Delaware, above the mouth 
of the Susquehanna. His object was the conquest and possession of Phil- 
adelphia, distant some 30 or 40 miles. 

To attain this object, he would sweep like a tornado over tlie luxuriant 
plains that lay between his troops and tlit cily. lie would write his foot- 
steps on the soil, in the lierce Alphabet of blood — the bla>-ted licld, the 
burned farm-house, the bodies of dead men, hewn down in defence of their 
hearth sides, those all would track his course. 

With this announcement, there came another rumor — a rumor of the 
approach of Washington ; he came from the direction of Wilmiiiglon, wilh 
his ill-clad and half-starved Continentals ; he came to face the British In- 
vader, wilh his 17,000 hirelings. 

It became a fact to all, that the peaceful valley of the Hrandywine was 
soon to be the chess board, on which a magnificent game of blood and 
battle would soon be played for a glorious stake. The city of Philadel- 
phia, wilh its stores of provisions, its iiiunilioiis of war, its Continental 
Congress. 

IV.— THE GATHERING OF THE HOSTS. 

It was the 9th of September. 

The moon was up in the blue heavens. Far along the eastern horizon, 
lay a wilderness of clouds, piling their forms of huge grandeur up in deep 
azure of night. 

The forests of Brandywine arose in dim indistinctness into 'the soft 
moonlight. There were deep shadows upon the meadows, and from many 
a farmer's home, the light of the hearth-side lamp poured out upon the 
night. 

It was niglit among the hills of Brandywine. when there was a strange 



THE GATHERING OF THE HOSTS. 307 

sound echoing and trembling through the deep forests. There was a strange 
sound in the forest, along the hills, and through the meadows, and soon 
brcaidng from the thick shades, there came a nuilliliide of dim and spectral 
forms. 

Yes, brea'ii'ig into the light of the moon, there came a strange host of 
men, clad ni military costume, with bayonets gleaming through the air and 
banners waving overhead. 

Tlioy came with the regular movement of mililary discipline, band after 
band, troop after troop, column after coluiiin, breaking in stern silence from 
the covert of the woods, but the horses of the cavalry looked jaded and 
worn, the footsteps of the infantry were clogged and leaden, while the broad 
banners of this strange host, waving so proudly in the air, waved and llut- 
tered in rags. The bidlet and the cannon ball had done their work upon 
these battle flags ! 

And over this sirpnge host, over the long columns of troopers and foot- 
soldiers — over the baggage wagons bearing the sick, the wounded, nay, over 
the very flags that fluttered into light on every side, there rose one broad 
and massive banner, on whose blue folds were pictured thirteen stars. 

Need I tell you the name of this host ? Look down yonder, along the 
valley of the Brandyv,'ine, and mark those wasted forms, seared by the 
bullet and the sword, clad in rags, with rusted niusquets in their hands and 

dinted swords by their sides look there and ask the name of this strange 

host ! 

The question is needless. It is the army of George Washington, for 
poverty and freedom in those days, walked hand in hand, over rough roads 
and bloody battlefields, while sleek faces and broad clothed Loyally went 
pacuig merry measures, in some Royal ball room. 

And thus, in silence, in poverty, almost in despair, did the army of 
AVashington take position on the field of Brandywine, on the night of Sep- 
tember 0th, 1777. 

And over the banner of the Continental host, sat an omen of despair, a 
brooding and ghastly Phantoiu, perched above the flag of freedom, chuck- 
ling with fiend-like glee, as he pointed to llie gloomy Past and then — to the 
Unknown future. 

On the next day, the Tenth of the Alonth, the hosts of a well-diseiplined 
army came breaking from the forests, with the merry peal of fife and drum, 
with bugle note and clarion sound, and while the morning sun shone briglitly 
over their well burnished arms, they proceeded to occupy an open space 
of ground, amid the shadow of the woods, at a place called Kennel's Square, 
some seven miles westward of Chadd's Ford, where Washington had taken 
his position. 

How grandly they broke from the woods, with the sunbeams, shining on 
the gaudy red coat, the silver laced cap, the forest of nodding plumes. How 
proudly their red cross banner waved in the free air, as though not ashamed 



308 THE BATTLE OF URANDYWINE. 

to toy ami wanton in breeze of frcedoin, after it liad floaled above llie fields 
of dowii-iroddeii Europe, and looked down upon llie plains of ravaged 
liindoostan ! 

Yes, ihcre in the far East, where ibe Juggernaut of British I'ower had 
rolled over its ten liiousand victims, father and son, mother and babe, all 
mingled in red massacre J 

Who would have thought, that these finely-built men, with their robust 
forms, were other than freemen ? That their stout hands could strike 
another blow than the blow of a free arm, winged by the imjuilse of a free 
thought .' 

Wlio, gazing on this gallant host, with its gleaming swords upraised in 
the air, its glittering bayonets shining in the light, who would have thought, 
that to supply tliis gallant host, the gaols of England had been ransacked, 
lier convict ships eniplicd .' 'J'hal the dull slaves of a (Jernian J'rince had 
been Ixnr'hl, to swell the number of this chivalric band ! 'i'hat these were 
the men who had ciossed the wide Atlantic with what object, pray ? 

'J'o lame these American peasants, who dared syllable the name of free- 
dom. To whip these rebel-dogs, such was the courteous epithet, they 

applied to Washington and Wayne — back to their original obscurity. To 
desolate the fair plains and pleasant vallies of the New World, to stain the 
farmer's home with nis own blood, shed in defence of his hearthside. 

'I'o crush with the hand of hireling power, the Last Hope of man's free- 
dom, burning on the last shrine of the desolated world ! 

Wlu) coulil have imagined that the majestic looking man, who led this 
Imst of hirelmgs onward, the brave Howe, with his calm face and mild fore- 
head, was the Master-Assassin of this tyrant band .' 

Or that the amiable Cornwallis, who rode at his side, was the fit tool for 
such a work of Massacre ? Or that the brave and chivalric' sons of Eng- 
land's nobility, who commanded the legions of the invading host, that these 
men, gay and young and generous, were but the Executioner's of that Hang- 
man's Warrant, which converted all America into'one vast prison of con- 
vicied felons — each mountain peak a scaflold for the brave, each forest oak 
a gilibel for the free ? 

And here, while a day passed, encamped amid the woods of Kennct's 
Square, lay the nrilish army, while the Continental host, spreading along 
the eastern hills of Brandy wine, awaited their aj)proach without a fear. The 
(iiy passed, and then the night, and then the morning came 

Yet ere we mingle in the tumult of that battle morn, we will go to the 
American camp, and look upon the heroes in the shadows of the twilight 
hour. 



fr 



THE PREACHER OF BRANDYWINE. 309 



v.— THE PREACHEn OF BRANDYWINE. 



It was the eve of the battle of Brandy wine. 

I see b^re me now that pleasant valley, with its green meadow stretch- 
ing away into the dim shadows of twilight. The stream, now dashing 
around some rugged rock, now spreading in rairror-like calmness ; the hills 
on either side, magnificent with forest trees ; the farm houses, looking out 
from the embrace of orchards, golden with the fruitage of the fall ; the 
tvvilight sky blushing with the last kiss of day — all are there now, as they 
M'ere on the Iflth of September, 1777. 

But then, whitening over the meadow, arose the snowy tents of the Con- 
tinential encampment. Then arms gleamed from these hills, and war-steeds 
laved their limbs in yonder stream. Then, at the gentle twilight hour, the 
brave men of the army, sword and rifle in hand, gathered around a Preacher, 
whose pulpit — a granite rock — uprose from the green hill-side, near Chadd's 
Ford. 

Look upon him as he stands there, his dark gown floating around his tal! 
form, his eye burning and his brow flushing with the excitement of the 
hour. He is a man in the prime of manhood — with a bold face, tempered 
down to an expression of Christian meekness — yet, ever and anon, a war- 
rior soul looks out from that dark eye, a warrior-shout swells up from that 
heaving bosom. 

Their memories are with me now ; those brave men, who, with God for 
their panoply, shared the terrors of Trenton, the carnage of Brandywine, 
the crust and cold of Valley Forge ; their memories are with me now, and 
shall be forevermore. They were brave men, those Preacher-Heroes of 
the Revolution. We will remember them in hymns, sung on the cold 
winter nights, around the hearthsides of our homes — we will not forget 
them in our prayers. We will tell the story to our children : "Children ! 
there were brave men in the Revolution — brave men, wliose hearts panted 
beneath a preacher's gown. There were brave men, whose hands grasped 
a Bible, a cross, and a sword. Brave men, whose voices were heard amid 
the crash of legions, and beside the quivering forms of the dying. Honest 
men were they, who forsook pulpit and cliurch to follow George Washing- 
ton's army, as it left its bloody footsteps in the winter snow. Honor to 
those Preacher-Heroes, who called upon their God in ihe storm and heard 
his answer in the balde-shout !" 

We will sing to their memory in hymns of the olden time ; on the 
Christmas night we will send up a rude anthem — bold in words, stern in 
thought, such as they loved in the Revolution — to the praise of these chil- 
dren of God. 

Wasliington, Wayne, Pulaski, Sullivan, Greene ; there all are grouped 
around the rock. The last ray of sunset gleams on their uncovered brows. 

37 



310 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYVVINE. 

Far away spread tlic ranks of the army. Through tlie silence of ihe 
twilight liour, you may liear that bold voice, speaking out words like these. 

Come — we will go to cliurcli with llic Heroes. Our canopy the sky, 
the pulpit, yon granite rock, the congregation, a hand of brave men, who, 
with sword and ride in hand, await the hour of fight ; our Preacher a 
warrior-soul, locked up in a sacerdotal robe. Come — we will worship with 
Washington and Wayne ; we will kneel upon this sod, while the sunset 
gleams over ten thousand brows, bared to the beam and breeze. 

Do you hear the Preacher's voice swelling through the twilight air ? 

And first, ere we listen to his voice, we will sing to his memory, this 
rugged hymn of the olden time — 

HYMN TO THE PREACHER-HEROES. 

'Twas on a sad and \\fiitry nij^^lit 

When my Grandsire died ; 
Ere his spirit took its flight, 

lie caU'd mo to his side. 

White liis liair as winter snow, 

His voice all quiv'ring rung — 
His cheek lit with a sudden glow — 

This chaunt in dcatli he sung. 

Honor to tlioso men of old — 

The Preachers, brave and good ! 
Whose words, divinely bold, 

Stirr'd the patriot's blood. 

Their pulpit on the rock, 

Their cliurch the battle-plain ; 
They dared the foeman's shock. 

They fought among the slain. 

E'en yet methinks I hear 

Their deep, their heart-wrung tones, 
Risinn- all bold and clear 

Above tlieir brothers' groans. 

They preached, they prayed to-night. 

And read God's solemn word — 
To-morrow, in the fight. 

They grasp'd a freeman's sword. 



THE PREACHER OF BRANDYWINE. gn 

O ! tliey were brave and true, 

Their names in glory shine ; 
For, by the flag of blue, 

Tliey fought at Brandy wine. 

At Gerrnanlown — aye, tliere ! 

Tliey pray'd the columns ox ! 
Amen ! to that lx)ld pray'r — 

" God and Washington !" 

Honor to those rnen of old, 

Who pray'd in field and gorge — 
Who shar'd the crust and cold 

With the brave, at Valley Forge. 

On the sacramental day 

Press we His cup agen — 
'Mid our sighs and tears we'll pray 

God bless those martyr-men. 

Those Preachers, lion-soul'd. 

Heroes of their Lord, 
^\^lo, when the battle roll'd, 
Grasp'd a freeman's sword. 

Grasp'd a freeman's sword 

And cheer'd their brothers on — 
Lifted up His word — 

By Freedonr's gonfalon. 

Nor sect or creed we know. 

Heroes in word and deed — 
Bloody footprints in the snow 

Mark'd each preacher's creed. 

'Wid the snows of cold De<;ember, 

Tell your son's the story ; 
Bid them for aye remember. 

The Hero-Preacher's glory. 

While glows the Christmas flame ; 

Sing honor to the good and bold — 
Honor to each Preacher's name — 

The lion-hearted men of old. 



91) THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

REVOLUTIONARY SERMON, 

Preached on the eve of the Baltic of Branili/wiiie, (Sr/ilember 10, 1777,) in presence of 
Washiuglon and /ii." Army, at Chadd's Ford.' 

"They that lake the sword, shall perish by the sword." 

Soldiers and Cotintn/men : — Wc have met this evening perliaps for the 
last time. We have shared the toil of tiie inarch, the peril of the liglit, 
the dismay of the retreat — aiiiie we have endured toil and liunger, the con- 
tumely of the inlirnal foe, the outrage of the foreign oppressor. We liave 
fat nigiit after niglit beside the same camp fire, shared the same rough sol- 
dier's faro ; we have together heard the roll of the reveille which called us 
to duty, or the beat of the tattoo which gave the signal for the hardy sleep 
of the soldier, wilh the earth for his bed, the knapsack for his pillow. 

And now, soldiers and brethren, we have met in the peaceful valley, on 
the eve of battle, while the sunlight is dying away beyond yonder lieighls, 
the sunlight that to-moiTow morn will glimmer on scenes of blood. We 
have met, amid the whitening tents of our encampment — in times of terror 
and of gloom have we gathered together — God grant it may not be for the 
last time. 

It is a solemn time. Brethren, docs not the awful voice of nature, seem 
to echo the sympathies of this liour ? The flag of our country, droops 
heavily from yonder stafl' — the breeze has died away along the plain of 
Chadd's Ford — the plain that spreads before us glistening in sunlight — the 
heights of the Brandvwine arise gloomy and grand beyond the waters of 
yonder stream, and all nature holds a pause of solemn silence, on the eve 
of the bloodshed and strife of the morrow. 

"TVifi/ that take the sword, shall perish by the sioard." 

And have tlm) not takfu the sword ? 

Let the desolated plain, the blood-soddened valley, the burned farm-house, 
the sacked village, and the ravaged town, answer — let the whitening bones 
of the butchered farmer, strewn along the fields of his homestead answer — 
let the starving mother, with the babe clinging to her withered breast, that 
can afford no sustenance, let her answer, with the death-rattle mingling with 
tlie murmuring tones that mark the last struggle for life — let the dying 
mother and her babe answer! 

It was but a day past, and our land slept in tiie light of peace. AVar was 
not here — wrong was not here. Fraud, and woe, and misery, and want, 
dwelt not among us. From the eternal solitude of the green woods, arose 
the blue smoke of the settler's cabin, and golden fields of corn peered forth 



* This Sprmon was originally puhlishcd, (before it was incorporated with the Lec- 
tures,) with fictiliotis names attached, etc. etc. There is no tlonbt ihat a sern»on was 
delivered on th(* eve of the Bailie of Ilrandywino, and I have subsianlial evidence to 
prove that the Preacher was none other than Hfi:ti He.vry BRFcKKN'KjnuE. a distin- 
guished Divine, who afterwards wrote •"Modern Chi.valry," an eminently popular 
produ-'iion, and filled various ofiieial positions with lioni>r to himself and his country. 
"I'he Sermon is. I trust, not altogether unworihy of that i-hiviilrio band, wlio forsaking 
theii homes and churches, fouad a home and church ia the Camp of Wushington. 



THE PREACHER OF BRANDYWINE. 313 

from amid the waste of ihe wilderness, and the glad music of luiman voices 
awoke the silence of the forest. 

Now ! God of mercy, behold the change ! Under the shadow of a pre- 
text — under the sanctity of the name 'of God, invoking the Redeemer to 
their aid, do these foreign hirelings slay our people ! They throng our 
towns, lliey darken our plains, and now they encompass our posts on the 
lonely plain of Chadd's Ford. 

"They that take the sword, shall perish by the sword." 

Brethren, think me not unworlliy of belief when I tell you that the doom 
of the Uritisher is near ! — Tliink me not vain when I tell you that beyond 
that cloud that now enshrouds us, I see gathering, thick and fast, llie darker 
cloud, and the blacker storm, of a Divine Retribution ! 

They may conquer us to-mnrrow ! Might and wrong may prevail, and 
we may be driven from this field — but the hour of God's own vengeance 
will come ! 

Aye, if in the vast solitudes of eternal space— if in the heart of the bound- 
less universe, there throbs the being of an awful God, quick to avenge, and 
sure to punish guilt, then will the man George of Brunswick, called King, 
feel in his brain and in his heart, the vengeance of the Eternal Jehovah ! 
A blight will be upon his life — a withered brain, an accursed intellect — a 
blight will be upon his children, and on his people. Great God ! how 
dread the punishment ! 

A crowded populace, peopling the dense towns where the man of money 
thrives, while the laborer starves ; want striding among the people in all its 
forms of terror ; an ignorant and God-defying priesthood, chuckling over 
the miseries of millions ; a proud and merciless nobility, adding wrong to 
wrong, and heaping insult upon robbery and fraud : royalty corrupt to the 
ver)' heart ; aristocracy rotten to the core ; crime and want linked hand ia 
hand, and tempting men to deeds of woe and death ; these are a part of the 
doom and retribution that shall come upon the English throne and people. 

Soldiers — I look around among your familiar faces with a strange inter- 
est ! To-morrow morning we will all go forth to battle — for need I tell you, 
that your unworthy minister will go with you, invoking God's aid in the 
fight ? We will march forth to battle. Need I exhort you to fight the good 
fight — to fight for your homesteads, and for your wives and children ? 

My friends, I might urge you to fight by the galling memories of British 
wrong! Walton— I might tell you of your father, butchered in the silence 
of midnight, on the plains of Trenton : I might picture his grey hairs, dab- 
bled in blood ; I might ring his death-shriek in your ears. 

Shelmire, I might tell you of a mother butchered, and a sister oiUraged — 
the lonely farm-house, the night-assault, the roof in flames, the shouts of 
the troopers as they despatched their victims, the cries for mercy, the plead- 
ings of innocence for pity. I might paint this all again, in the terrible colors 
of vivid reality, if I thought your courage needed such wild excitement. 



314 THE BATTLE OF BRANOYWINE. 

But I know you are strong in the might of the Lord. You will fro forth 
to baltlo to-morrow with light liparls ami (ietertnincd spirits, though the 
solemn duty, the duty of avenging the dead, may rest heavy on your souls. 

And in the hour of battle, when all around is darkness, lit bj' the lurid 
cannon-glare, and the piercing musquet-flash, when the wounded strew the 
ground, and the dead litter your path, then remember, soldiers, tluit God is 
with you. The Eternal God fights for you — he rides on the battle-cloud, 
he sweeps onward with the march of the hurricane charge. — The Awful 
and liie Infinite fights for you, and you will triumph. 

" They that take the sword, shall perish by the sword." 

You have taken the sword, but not in the spirit of wrong and ravage. 
You have taken the sword for your homes, for your wives, for your little 
ones. — You have taken the sword for truth, for justice and right ; and to 
you tlie promise is, be of good cheer, for your foes have taken the sword, 
in defiance of all that man holds dear — in blasphemy of God — they shall 
perish by the sword. 

And now, brethren and soldiers, I bid you all farewell. Many of us may 
fall in the fight of to-morrow — God rest the souls of the fallen — many of us 
may live to tell the story of the fight of to-morrow, and in the memory of 
all, will ever rest and linger the quiet scene of this autumnal night. 

Solemn twilight advances over the valley ; die woods on the opposite 
heights fling tlieir long shadows over the green of the meadow ; around us 
are the tents of the Continental host, the half-suppressed busde of the camp, 
the hurried tramp of the soldiers to and fro ; now the confusion, and now 
the stillness which mark the eve of battle. 

When we meet again, may the long shadows of twilight be flung over a 
peaceful land. 

God in heaven grant it. 

Let us pray. 

PRAYER OF THE REVOLUTION. 

Great Father, we bow before thee. We invoke thy blessing — we de- 
precate thy wrath — we return thee thanks for the past — we ask thy aid for 
the future. For we are in times of trouble. Oh, Lord ! and sore beset by 
foes merciless and unpitying : the sword gleams over our land, and the 
dust of the soil is dampened by the blood of our neighbors and friends. 

Oh ! God of mercy, we pray thy blessing on the American arms. Make 
the man of our hearts strong in thy wisdom. Bless, we beseech thee, with 
renewed life and strength, our hope and Thy instrument, even Georqe 
Washington. Shower thy counsels on the Ilonoralile, the Continental 
Congress ; visit the tents of our hosts ; comfort the soldier in his wounds 
and afilictions, nerve him for the fight, prepare him for the hour of death. 

And in the hour of defeat, oh, God of hosts ! do thou be our stay ; and 
in the ho'i- -,•'" triumph, be thou our guide. 



THE DAWN OF THE FIGHT. jig 

Teach us to be merciful. Though the memory of galling wrongs be at 
our hearts, knocking for atlmiltance, that the)' may fill us with desires of 
revenge, yet let us, oh, Lord, spare the vanquished, though they never 
spared us, in the hour of butchery and bloodshed. And, in the hour of 
death, do thou guide us into tlie abode prepared for the blest ; so shall we 
return thanks unto thee, through Christ our Redeemer. — God prosper the 
Cause — Amen. 

As tlie words of the Preacher die upon the air, you behold those battle 
hosts — Washington in their midst, with uncovered brow and bended head — 
kneeling like children in the presence of their God. 

For he is there, the Lord of Sabaolli, and like a smile from lieaven, the 
last gleam of the setting sun lights up the Banner of the Stars, 

VI.— THE DAWN OF THE riGIIT. 

It was tiie battle day. — The Eleventh of September ! 

It broke in brightness and beauty, that bloody day : the sky was clear 
and serene ; the perfume of wild llowers was upon the air, and the blue 
mists of autumn hung atouiid the summit of the mound-like hills. 

The clear sky arched above, calm as in the bygone days of Halcyon 
peace, the wide forests flung their sea of leaves all wavingly into the light — 
the Brandy wine, with its stream and vallies, smiled in the face of the dawn, 
nature was the same as in the ancient time, but man was changed. 

The Fear of war had entered the lovely valley. There was dread in all 
the homes of Brandywine on that autumnal morn. The Blacksmith wrought 
no more at his forge, the farmer leaned wistfully upon the motionless plough, 
standing idly in the half-turned furrow. The fear of war had entered the 
lovely valley, and in the hearts of its people, there was a dark presentiment 
of coming Doom. 

Even in the Quaker Meeting house, standing some miles away from 
Chadd's Ford, the peaceful Friends assembled for their Spirit Worship, felt 
that another Spirit than that which stirred their hearts, would soon claim 
bloody adoration in the holy place. 

On the summit of a green and undulating hill, not more than half-a-mile 
distant from the plain of Chadd's Ford, the eye of the traveller is arrested, 
even at this day, by the sight of a giant chesnut tree, marked by a colossal 
trunk, while the wide-branching limbs, with their exuberance of deep 
green-leaved foliage, tell the storj- of two hundred years. 

Under this massive chesnut tree, on that renowned morn, as the first 
glimpse of the dawn broke over the ballleiicld, there stood a band of men in 
military costume, grouped around a tall and majestic figure. 

Within sight of this warlike group — a mound-shaped hill and rolling val- 
ley intervening, — lay the plain of Chadd's Ford, with the hastily-erected 
tents of the American encampment, whitening along its sward. 



819 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINB. 

There floated the banner of the stars, and there, resting on their well-tried 
arms, stood the brave soldiers of the Continental host, castin£( anxious yet 
fearless glances towards the western womls wiiich lined tiie rivulet, in mo- 
mentary expectation of the appearance of the British forces. 

And while all was expectation and suspense in the valley below, this 
warlike i;roiip had gathered under the shade of the ancient chesnut tree — a 
hurried Council of war, the Prelude to the blood-stained toil of the coming; 
battle. 

And the man who stood in their midst, towering above them all, like a 
Nobleman whose title is from God, l<n us look well upon him. He con- 
verses there, with a solemn presence about him. Those men, his battle- 
worn peers, stand awed and silent, hook at tiiat form, combining the sym- 
metry of faultless limbs, with a calm majesty of bearing, that shames the 
Kings of earth into nothingness look upon that proud form, which dig- 
nities that military costume of blue and buff and gold — examine well the 
outlines of that face, which you could not forget among ten thousand, that 
face, stamped with the silent majesty of a great soul. 

Ask the soldier the name he shouts in the vanguard of battle, ask the dying 
patriot the name he murmurs, when his voice is husky with the flow of 
suffocating blood, and death is iceing over his heart, and freezing in his 

veins ask the mother for the name she murmurs, when she presses her 

babe to her bosom and bids hira syllable a prayer lor the safetj' of the father, 
far away, amid the ranks of battle, ask History for that name, which shall 
dwell evermore in the homes and hearts of men, a sound of blessing and 
praise, second only in sancliry to the name of the Blessed Redeemer. 

And that name — need I speak it ? 

Need I speak it with the boisterous shout or wild hurrah, when it is 
spoken in the still small voice of every heart that now throbs at the sound 
of the word — the name of George Washington. 

And as the sunbeams came bright and golden through the foliage of the 
ancient chesnut tree, they shone upon the calm face of the sagacious Greene 
— the rugged brow of the fearless Pulaski — the blulT, good-humored visage 
of Knox — the frank, manly face of De Kalb — and there with his open brow, 
his look of reckless daring, and the full brown eye that never quailed in its 
glance, was the favorite son of Pennsylvania, her own hero, dear to her 
history in many an oft-told tradition, the theme of a thousand legends, the 
praise of historian and bard — Mad Anton)- Wayne ! 

Standing beside George Washington, you behold a young soldier — quite 
a boy — with a light and well-proportioned form, mingling the outlines of 
youthful beauty with the robust vigor of manly strength. His face was 
free, daring, chivalric in expression, his blue eye was clear and sparkling in 
its glaTice,and his sand-hued Ijair fell back in careless locks from a bold and 
lofty brow. 

And who was he ? 



THE DAWN OF THE FIGHT. 317 

Not a soldier in the American camp, from the green mountain boy of tiie 
north, to the daring Ranger of the Santee, but knows his name and has his 
story at his tongue's end, familiar as a household word. 

And why cast he friends and rank and hereditarj' right aside, why tear- 
ing himself from the bosom of a young and beautiful wife, did he cross the 
Atlantic in peril and in danger, pursued by the storm and surrounded by the 
ships of the British fleet — why did he spring so gladly upon the American 
shore, why did he fling wealth, rank, life, at the feet of George Washing- 
ton, pledging honor and soul in the American cause ? 

Find your answer in the history of France — find your answer in the 
history of her Revolutions — the Revolution of the Reign of Terror, and the 
Revolution of the Three days — find your answer in the history of the 
world for the last sixty years — in every line, you will behold beaming forth 
that high resolve, that generous daring, that nobility of soul, which in life 
made his name a blessing, and in death hangs like a glory over his memory 
— tlie name — the memory of La Fayette. 

Matter of deep import occupied this hurried council of war. In short 
and emphatic words, Washington stated the position of the Continental 
army. The main body were encam])ed near Chadd's Ford — the Pennsyl- 
vania militia under Armstrong two miles below ; the Right Wing under Sul- 
livan two miles above. 

This Washington stated was the position of the army. He looked for 
the attempt of the enemy to pass the Brandywine, either at Chadd's or 
Brinton's Ford. 

He had it is true, received information that a portion of the British 
would attack him in front, while the main body crossing the Brandywine 
some miles above, would turn his right flank and take him by surprise. 

But the country — so Washington said in a tone of emphatic scorn — 
swarmed with traitors and torics ; he could not rely upon this information. 

While the cliiels were yet in councd, all doubt was solved by the arrival 
of a scout, who announced the approach of Kniphausen towards Chadd's 
Ford. 

An hour passed. 

Standing on the. embankment, which grim with cannon, frowned above 
Chadd's Ford, General Wayne beheld the approach of the Hessians along 
the opposite hills. 

The word of command rang from his lips, and then the cannon gave 
forth their thunder, and the smoke of battle for the first time, darkened the 
valley of the Brandywine. 

Standing on the embankment. Mad Antony Wayne beheld the valley be- 
low shrouded in smoke, he heard the cries of wounded and the dying ! 

He saw the brave riflemen, headed by Maxwell and Porterfield, dart 
down from the fortified knoll, hurry across the meadow, until the green trees 
overlooking the stream, received them in their thick shade. 

38 



318 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

Then came the fierce and deadly contest, between these ridemen and the 
Yager bands of the Hessian army ! 

Then came the moment, when standing in mid stream, they poured the 
rifle-blaze into each other's faces, when they fought foot to foot, and hand 
to liand, when the dealii-groan bubbled up to tlie water's surface, as the 
mani/led vicliiu was trodden down into the yellow sands of the rivulet's bed. 

Then witii a shout of joy, gallant Mad Anthony beheld the Hessians driven 
back, while the Banner of the Stars rose gloriously among the clouds of 
batde, and then 

But why should I picture the doubt, the anxiety, the awful suspense of 
that morning, when Washington looking every moment for the attack of 
the British on his front, was yet fearful that they would turn his right wing 
and take him by surprise ? 

Sulilce it to say, that after hours of suspense, one o'clock came, and with 
that hour came the thunderbolt. 

A wounded scout brought iulelligence of the approach of the British, in 
full force, above the heights of Birmingham ^Meeting House, toward the 
Right Wing of the Continental Army. The wounded scout gave this dread 
message, and then bit the dust, a dead man. 

Come with me now, come with me through the lanes of Brandywine ; 
let us emerge from these thick woods, let us look upon the hills around 
Birmingham 3ileeting House. 

VII. —THE QUAKER TEMPLE. 

It is now two o'clock. 

The afternoon sun is shining over a lovely landscape diversified with hills, 
now clad with thick and shady forests, now spreading in green pasturages, 
now blooming in cultivated farms. 

Let us ascend yonder hill, rising far above the plain — yon hill to the 
north cast crowded with a thick forest, and sloping gently to the south, its 
bare and grassy bosom melting away into a luxuriant valley. 

We ascend this hill, we sit beneath the shade of yonder oak, we look 
forth upon the smiling heavens above, the lovely land beneath. For ten 
wide miles, that map of beauty lies open to our gaze. 

Yonder toward the south arise a ravage of undulating hills, sweeping 
toward the east, in plain and meadow — gently ascending in the west until 
they terminate in the heights of Brandywine. 

And there, far to the west, a glimpse of the Brandywine comes laughing 
into light — it is seen but a moment a sheet of rippling water, among green 
boughs, and then it is gone ! 

Gaze upon yonder hill, in the south east. It rises in a gradual ascent. 
On its summit thrown forward into the sun by a deep background of woods, 
there stands a small one-storied fabric, with steep and shingled roof — with 
Walls of dark grey stone. 



THE QUAKER TEMPLE. 310 

This unpretending structure arises in one corner of a small enclosure, 
of dark green grass, varied by gendy rising mounds, and bounded by a wall 
of dark grey stone. 

This fabric of stone rests in the red sunlight quiet as a tomb. Over its 
ancient roof, over its moss covered walls, stream the warm sunbeams. And 
that solitary tree standing in the centre of the graveyard — for that enclosed 
space is a graveyard, although no tombstones whiten over its green mounds 
or marble pillars tower into light — that solitary tree quivers in the breeze, 
and basks in the afternoon sun. 

That is indeed the quiet Quaker graveyard — yon simple fabric, one story 
high, rude in architecture, contracted in its form is the peaceful Quaker 
meeting house of Birmingham. 

It will be a meeting house indeed ere the setting of yon sun, where 
Death and blood and woe shall meet ; where carnage shall raise his fiery 
Iiymn of cries and groans, where mercy shall enter but to droyp and die. 

Tliere, in that rude temple, long years ago, was spoken the Prophecy 
jvhich now claims its terrible fulfilment. 

Now let us look upon the land and sky. Let us look forth from the top 
of this hill — it is called Osborne's hill — and survey the glorious land- 
scape. 

The sky is very clear above us. Clear, serene and glassy, A single 
cloud hovers in the centre of the sk)', a single snow white cloud hovers 
there in the deep azure, receiving on its breast, the full warmth of the 
Autumnal sun. 

It hovers there like a holy dove of peace, sent of God ! 

Look to the south. Over hill and plain and valley look. Observe those 
thin light wreaths of smoke, arising from the green of the forest some two 
or three miles to the southwest — how gracefully these spiral columns curl 
upward and melt away into the deep azure. Upward and away they wind, 
away — away — until they are lost in the lieavens. 

That snowy smoke is hovering over the plahi of Chadd's Ford, where 
Washington and Wayne are now awaiting the approach of Kniphausen 
across the Brandywine. 

Change your view, a mile or two eastward — you behold a cloud of smoke, 
hovering over the camp fires of the reserve under General Greene ; and 
yonder from the hills north of Chadd's Ford, the music of Sullivan's 
Division comes bursting over wood and plain. 

We will look eastward of the meeting house. A siglit as lovely as ever 
burst on mortal eye. There are plains glowing with the rich hues of cul- 
tivation — plains divided by fences and dotted wiih cottages — here a massive 
hill, there an ancient farm house, and far beyond peaceful mansions, reposing 
in the shadow of twilight woods 

Look ! Along these plains and fields, the affrighted people of the valley 
are fleeing as though some bloodhound tracked their footsteps. They flee 



320 THE BATTLE OF CRANDYWINE. 

the valley of the Quaker Temple, as though death was in the breeze, deso- 
lation in the sunlight. 

Ask you wiiy they flee ? Look to the west and to the north west, — 
what see you there l 

A cloud of dust rises over the woods — it gathers volumes — larger and 

wilier darker and blacker — it darkens the western sky — it throws its dusky 

shade f;ir over the verdure of the woodlands. 

Look again — what see you now ? 

There is the same cloud of dust, but nothing more meets the vision. Hear 
you nothing ? 

Yes. There is a dull deadened sound like the tramp of war steeds — now 
it gathers volume like the distant moan of the ocean-storm — now it murmurs 
like the thunder rolling away, amid the ravines of far-ofl' mountains — and 
now ! 

Bv the soul of Mad Anthony it siirs one's blood ! 

And now there is a merry peal bursting all along the woods — drum, fife, 
bugle, all intermingling — and now arises that ominous sound — the clank of 
the sword by the warrior's side, and all the ratde and the clang of arras — 
suppressed and dim and distant, but terrible to hear ! 

Look again. See you nothing? 

Yes ! Look to the north and to the west. Rank after rank, file after 
file, they burst from the woods — banners wave and bayonets gleam ! In 
one magnificent array of battle, they burst from the woods, eohiinn after 
column — legion after legion. On their burnished arms — on their waving 
plumes shines and flainits the golden sun. 

Look — far through the woods and over the fields ! You see notliing hut 
gleaming bayonets and gaudy red-coals — you behold nothing but bands of 
inarching men, but troops of mounted soldiers. The fields are jcd with 
British uniforms — and there and there 

Do you see that gorgeous banner — do you see its emblems — do you mark 
its colors of blood — do you see 

Oh, Blessed Redeemer, Saviour of the world, is that thy cross ? Is that 
thy cross waving on that blood-red banner ? 

Thy t'ross, that emblem of peace and truth and mercy, emblem of thy 
sufiTeriugs, thy death, thy resurrection, emlilein of Gethemane and of Cal- 
vary ! thy cross waves there, an emblem of iiiDi;oiis murdkr ! 

Look ! The blood of the Nations drips from tliat Hag ! Look, it is 
stained widi the blood of the Scot, the Irishman, rud Indian, and the dusky 
Hindoo — it is stained with the blood of all the earth ! Tiie gliosis of mil- 
lions, from a thousand battlefields arise and curse that flag forever in the 
sight of God ! And now — ah, now it comes on to the valley of the Bran- 
dy wine — it comes on its work of murder and blood ! 

And there waving in the sun, that cross so darkly, so foully dishonored, 
ccwrts the free air and does not blush for its crimes ! 



I 



WASHINGTON COMES TO CATTLE. 32I 



VIII— WASHINGTON COMES TO BATTLE. 

Again turn we lo the South. What sec you there ? 

There is the gleam of arms, but it is faint, it is faint and far away ! 
Hark ! Do you hear that sound ? Is it thunder, is it the throbbing of 
some fierce earthquake, tearing its way througii the vitals of the earth ? 

No ! No ! The legions are moving. 

Washington lias scented the prey — doubt is over. Glory to tiie god 
of battles — glory ! The Batde is now certain. There, there, hidden by 
woods and hills, advances the Banner of tlie New World — the Labarum of 
the Riglits of man ! There, the boy-general I,a Fayette gaily smiles and 
waves his maiden sword — there, there white-uniformed Pulaski growls his 
batde cry — there calm-visaged Greene is calculating chances, and there 
Wayne — Mad Anthony Wayne ? Hah ? What does he now ? Listen to 
his cannon— they speak out over three miles of forest! That is the wel- 
come of Mad Anthony to Kniphausen, as he attempts lo cross the Bran- 
dywine ! 

And on they come, the American legions — over hill and thro' wood, 
along lonely dell, band after band, battalion crowding on battallion — and now 
they move in columns ! How the roar of the cataract deepens and swells ! 
The earth trembles — all nature gives signs of the coming contest. 

And over all, over the lonely valley, over the hosts advancing to the fight, 
there sits a hideous Phantom, with the head of a fiend, the wings of a vul- 
ture ! Yes, yes, there, unseen and unknown, in mid-air, hovers the Fiend 
of Carnage ! He spreads his dusky wings with joy ! He will have a rare 
feast ere sundown — a dainty feast ! The young, the gallant, the brave are 
all to sodden your graveyard with their blood. 

Near the foot of this hill, down in the hollow yonder, a clear spring of 
cold water shines in the sun. Is it not beautiful, tiiat spring of cold water, 
with its border of wild flowers, its sands yellow as gold ? 

Ere the .'••etting of yonder sun, that spring will be red and rank and foul 
with die gore of a thousand hearts ! 

For it lays in the lap of the valley, and all the blood shed upon yon hill, 
■will pour into it, in little rills of crimson red ! 

And on, and on, over hill and valley, on and on advances the Banner of 
the New World. 

— Glory to the God of battle, how fair that banner looks in the green woods, 
how beautiful it breaks on the eye, when toying with the gende breezes, it 
pours its starry rays among the forest trees, or mirrors its beauty in some 
quiet brook ? 

But wlien it emerges from the green woods, when tossing on the winds 
of battle, it seeks the open plain, and its belts of scarlet and snow float 



322 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

gramlly in llic air, and ils stars flasli back the lif^lit of the sun — all, then it 
is a glorious sight ! 'J'hcii let this prayer arise from every American heart ! 

Be thou enthroned above that banner, God of Battles! Guard it with 
thy lightnings, fan it with thy breezes, avenge it with thy thunders! 

May it ever advance as now, in a cause holy as thy light ! May the 
lianil tliat would dare pluck one star from its glory, wither — may treason 
fall palsied beneath its shade ! 

But should it ever advance in the cause of a Tyrant, should its folds ever 
float over a nation of slaves, then crush Thou that banner in the dust — then 
scatter its fragments to space and night, then, then take back to Heaven 
tliy Stars ! 

But in;iy it wave on and on — may it advance over this broad continent — • 

freedom's pillar of cloud bj' day — freedom's pillar of lire by night until 

there shall be but one nation, from the ice-wililerness of the north, to the 
waters of the Southern Sea — a nation of Americans and of brothers ! 

IX.— THE HOUR OF BATTLE. 

It was now four o'clock — the hour of baldo. 

It is the awful moment, when twenty-two thousand human beings, gazing 
in each other's faces from opposite hills, await the signal word of light. 

Along the brow of yonder high hill — Osborne's hill, and down on either 
side, into the valley on one hand, the plain on the other, sweeps the for- 
midable front of the British army, with the glittering line of bayonets above 
tlieir heads, another glittering line in their rear, while the arms of the Bri- 
gade in Reserve glimmer still farther back, among the woods on the hill- 
top and yet farther on, a Regiment of stout Englishers await the bidding 

of their masters, to advance or retire, as the fate of the day may decree. 

Tliere are long lines of glittering cannon pointed toward the opposite 
hills, there are infantry, artillery and cavalry, a band of twelve thousand 
men, all waiting for the signal word of fight. 

On that clear space of green hill-side, between tlie Regiment of horse and 
the Brigade in Reserve, General Howe and I^ord Cornwallis rein their 
steeds, encircled by the chieftains of the British host. 

And from the trees along the opposite hills, pour the hurried bands of the 
Continental Army, at the very moment that the British General is about to 
give the word of battle, which will send an hundred Soids to Eternity ! 

Tliere comes tlic Right Division of the army under the brave Sullivan, 
the unfortunate Stephens, the gallant Stirling. They take their position in 
hurry and disorder. They file along the hills in their -coats of blue and 
butr, they tlirow their rille bands into the Meeting House. With stout 
hands, with llrai hearts, this division of the Continenlal host confront the 
formidable army, whose array flashes from yonder hill. 

There mounted on his grey war-stccd. Sir William Howe looked for a 



THE HOUR OF BATTLE. 323 

moment over the ranks of his army, over their forest of sworjs and bayonets 
and banners, and then slowly unsheathing his sword, he waved it in the 
light. 

That was the signal of battle. 

An hundred bugles hailed that sign with tlieir maddening peals, an hun- 
dred drums rolled forth their deafening thunder — Hark ! The hill quivers 
as though an earthquake shook its grassy bosom ! 

Along the British line streams the blaze of musquelry, the air is filled 
with the roar of cannon ! 

Look down into the valley below ! There all is shrouded in snow-while 
smoke — snow-white that heaves upward in'those vast and rolling folds. 

A moment passes ! — 

That cloud is swept aside !)y a breeze from the American army. That 
breeze bears the groans of dying men to the very ears of Howe ! 

That parting cloud lays bare the awful panorama of death — wounded 
men falling to the earth — death-stricken soldiers leaping in the air, witli the 
blood streaming from their shattered limbs. 

Where solid ranks but a moment stood, now are heaps of ghastly dead ! 

Another moment passes, and the voi^e of Sullivan is heard along the 
' Continental line. From the southern heights there is a deafening report, 
and tlien a blaze of flame bursts over the British ranks ! 

The piercing musquet shot, the sharp crack of the rifle, the roar of the 
cannon, these all went up to heaven, and then all was wrapt in smoke on 
the southern hills. 

Then the white pall was lifted once again ! Hah ! The Quaker Meet- 
ing House has become a fortress ! From every window, nook and cranny 
j^eals the rille-blaze, the death-shot ! 

And then a thousand cries and groans commingling in one infernal chorus, 
go shrieking up to yon sky of azure, that smiles in mockery of this scene 
of murder! — And yonder, far in the west, the waters of the Brandy wine 
still laugh into light for a moment, and then roll calmly on. 

Another moment passes ! That loud shout yelling above the chorus of 
death — what means it ? The order rings along the British line — Charge, 
charge for King George ! 

The Continental columns give back the shout with redoubled echo, 
Charge, charge in the Name of God, in the name of Washington ! 

And then while the smoke gathers like a black vault overhead — like a 
black vault built by demon hands, sweeping from either side, at llie top of 
their horses speed the troopers of the armies meet, sword to sword, with 
banners mingling and with bugle pealing, figliting for life they meet. There 
is a crash, a fierce recoil, and another charge ! 

Now the Red Cross of St. George, and the Starry Banner of the New 
World, mingle their folds together, tossing and plunging to the impulse of 
the batile-breeze. 



324 THE BATTLE OK BRANDYVVINE. 

Hurrah ! Tlie fever of blood is in its worst and wildest delirium ! Now 
arc human f.icos trampled deep into the blood-drenched sod, now are glazing 
eves torn out by bayonet tbrusls, now are quivering hearts rent from the 
still-living bodies of tiie foemen ! 

Hurrah ! 

How gallandy the Continentals meet the brunt of strife. Rushing for- 
ward on horse and foot, under that Starry lianner, they seek tlie Hrilish 
foemen, tiiey pour tiie dealh-hail into their ranks, they tliroltle tiiem with 
tiieir weaponless hands, 

X— THE rOETRY OF UATTLE. 

Talk not to nic of the I'oetry of Love, or the Sublimity of nature in re- 
pose, or the divine beauty of Religion ! 

Here is poetry, sublimity, religion ! Here are twenty thousand men 
tearing each other's limbs to fragments, pulling out eyes, crushing skulls, 
rending hearts and trampling the facts of the dying, deeper down — 
Poetry ! 

Here are horses running wild, their saddles riderless, liieir nostrils 
streaming blood, here arc wounded men gnashing their teeth as they en- 
deavor to crawl from beneath the horses' feet, here are a thousand little 
pools of blood, filling the hollows which the hoofs have made, or coursing 
down the ruts of the cannon wheels — SSuulimity ! 

Here are twelve thousand British hirelings, seeking the throats of yon 
small band of freemen, and hewing them down in gory murder, because, 
oh yes, because they vvill not pay tax to a good-humored Idiot, who even 
now, sits in his royal halls of Vt'iiulsor, three thousand miles away, with 
liis vacant eye and hanging lip, catching flies upon the wall, or picking 
threads from his royal robe — yes, yes, there he sits, crouching among the 
folds of gorgeous tapestry, this Master Assassin, while his trained mur- 
derers advance upon the hills of Brandywiue — there sits the King by right 
divine, the Head of the Church, the British Pope ! — Rklioion ! 

How do you like this Poktkv, this SunnMiTY, this Religion of George 
the Third '. 

And now, when you have taken one long look at the Idiot-King, silting 
yonder in his royal halls of Windsor, look there through the clouds of battle, 
and behold that warrior-form, mounted on a steed of iron-grey ! 

That warrior-form rising above the ranks of battle, clad in the uniform 

of blue and bull" and gold that warrior-form, with the calm blue eye 

kindling with such (ire, with the broad ciiest heaving with such emotion — 
with the stout arm lifting tiie sword on high, pointing the way to the field 
of deaili — that form looming there in such grandeur, through the intervals 
of batdc-smokc 



LORD PERCY'S DREAM. 325 

Is it the form of some awful spirit, sent from on high to guide the course 
of (lie fight ? Is il tlie form of an earthly King 1 

Tell me the name of that warrior-form ? 

Have your answer in the battle-rry, which swells from a thousand hearts 

■ " Washington ?" 

\ 

XI.— LORD pehcy's dream. 

It was at this moment — the darkest of the conflict — that Lord Comwallis, 
surveying the tide of a battle, turned to a young officer who had been de- 
tained for a moment by his side. 

" Colonel Percy — " said he — " The rebels have entrenched themselves 
in yonder graveyard. Would that I had a brave man, who would dare to 
plant the royal standard on those dark grey walls !" 

" I will lake it," said the young officer, as he gave his golden-hued steed 
the spur, " I will take it, or die !" 

And now as with his manly form, attired in a uniform of dark green 
velvet, he speeds down the hill, followed by a band of thirty bold troopers, 
his long dark hair flying back from his pale face; let me tell you the strange 
story of his life. 

Tradition relates, that accompanying the British host, urged by some 
wild spirit of adventure, was a young and gallant spirit — Lord Percy, a near 
connection of the proud Duke of Northumberland. 

He was young, gallant, handsome, but since the landing of the troops on 
the Chesapeake, his gay companions had often noted a frown of dark 
thought shadowing his features, a sudden gloom working over his pale face, 
and a wild unearthly glare in his full dark eye. 

The cause had been asked, but no answer given. Again and again, yet 
stdl no answer. 

At last, Lord Comwallis asked young Percy what melancholy feelings 
were these, which darkened his features with such a strange gloom. With 
the manner of a fated man, the young lord gave his answer. 

(This scene occurred not ten minutes before the batde, when Comwallis 
was urging his way thro' the thick wood, that clothed the summit of Os- 
borne's Hill.) 

He had left the dissipations of the English Court, for the wilds of the 
New World, at the request of the aged Earl, his father. That earl, when a 
young man, had wandered in the wilds of South Carolina— he had tricked 
a beautiful girl, in whose dark cheek there glowed the blood of an Indian 
Kintr he had tricked this beautiful girl into a sham marriage, and then de- 
serted her, for his noble bride in England. 

And now, after long years had passed, this aged Man, this proud Earl, 
had hurried his legitimate son to the wilds of America, with the charge to 

39 • 



826 Tlir, BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

seek out the illegitimale child of the Indian girl of Carolina, and place a 
pacqiiet in his hands. 

This, ill plain words, was the olycct of Lord Percy's journey to America. 

And as to the gloom on liis hrow, tlie dcalhly light in his eye ? Tliis 
VMS the answer which I'ercy gave to Cornwallis 

A presentiment of sudden death — he said — was on his mind. It liaJ 
haunted his brain, fnun the very first moment he had trodden the American 
shores. It trad crept like a I'lKintom beside him, in broad dayliglit, it had 
broodi'd w illi images of horror, over the calm hours devoted to sleep. It 
was ever with him, beside his bed and at his board, in camp and bouviac, 
that dark presentiment of sudden death. 

Whence came this presentiment? was the query of Lord Cornwallis. 

"One night when crossing the Atlantic, one night wlien the storm was 
abroad and the thunderbolt came crashing down tiie mainmast, then, niv 
Lord, then I had a dream ! In that dream I beheld a lovely valley, a rustic 
fabric, too rude for a lordly church and a quiet graveyard, without a tomb- 
stone or marble pillar ! And over that valley, and around that graveyard, 
the tide of battle raged, for it was a battle fierce and bloody ! 

" And therein that graveyard, I beheld a form thrown over a grassy mound, 
with the life-blood welling from the death-wound near the heart ! That 
form was mine ! Yes, yes, I saw the eyes glaring upon the blue heavens, 
with the glassy stare of death I That form was mine !" 

" Psliaw ! This is mere folly," exclaimed Lord Cornwallis, as he en- 
deavored to shake oil" the impression which the young Lord's earnest words 
had produced — " This is but a vain fancy " 

As he spoke they emerged from the thick wood, they reined their horses 

upon the summit of Osborne's hill the valley of the meeting-house lay 

at their feet. 

At this moment I.ord Percy raised liis face — at a glance he beheld the 
glorious landscape — a horrible agony distorted his countenance — 

" Mv DREAM ! My dream !" he shrieked, rising in his stirrups, and 
spreading forth his hands. 

And then with straining eyes he looked over the landscape. 

That single small white cloud liovered there in the blue heavens ! It 
hovered in the blue sky right over the Meeting House ! Hill and plain and 
valley lay basking in the sun. Afar were seen pleasant farm houses em- 
bosomed in trees, delightful strips of green meadow, and then came the blue 
distance where earth and sky melted into one ! 

But not on the distance looked Lord Percy — not on the blue sky, or glad 
ffelds, or luxuriant orchards. 

His straining eye saw but the valley at his feet, the Quaker temple, the 
quiet graveyard ! 

" My dream ! My dream !" he shrieked — " This is the valley of my 
dream — anr? yonder is the graveyard ! I am fated to die upon this iield !" 



LORD PERCY'S DREAM. 337 

No wnnls roiilil shake this belief. Seeking iiis brother officer.'!, Lord 
Percy beistowed some token of remembrance on each of them, gave his 
dearest friend a last word of farewell for his jjctrothed, now far away in the 
lofly halls of a ducal palace, and then, witii a pale cheek and llasliing eye, 
rode forth to battle. 

And now look at him, as with his dark hair waving on tlie wind, he 
nears the graveyard wall. 

lie raised his form in the stirrups, he cast one (lashing glance over his 
trooper band, robed in forest green, and then his eye was fixed upon the 
graveyard! 

All was silent there ! Not a shot from the windows — not a rifle-blaze 
from the dark grey wall. Tliere was that dark grey wall rising some thirty 
paces distant — there were the green mounds, softened by the rays of the 
sun, pouring from tliat parted cloud, and there back in the graveyard, under 
the shelter of trees, there is ranged a warrior-band, clad like his own in 
forest green, and with the form of a proud chieftain, mounted on a gold- 
hued steed, towering in their midst. 

That chieftain was Captain Waldemar, a brave partizan leader from the 
wild hills of the Santee. His bronzed cheek, his long dark hair, his well- 
proportioned form, his keen dark eye, all mark his relationship to the 
Indian girl of Carolina. 

Little docs Lord Percy think, as he rides madly toward that graveyard, 
that there tliat half-Indian brother is waiting for him, with bullet and 
sword. 

On with the impulse of an avalanche sweep the British troopers — behind 
tliem follow the infantry with fixed bayonets — before them is nothing but 
the peaceful graveyard sward. 

They reach the wall, their horses are rearing for the leap — 
When lo ! What means this miracle ? 

Starting from the very earth, a long line of bold backwoodsmen start up 
from behind the wall, their rifles poised at the shoulder, and that aim of 
death securely taken ! 

A sheet of fire gleamed over the graveyard wall pouring full into the faces 
of the British soldiers — clouds of pale blue smoke went rolling up to heaven, 
and as they took their way aloft, this horrid sight was seen. 

Where thirty bold troopers, but a moment ago rushed forward, breasting 
the graveyard wall, now were seen, thirty m^ war-horses, rearing wildly 
aloft, and trampling their riders' faces in the dust. 

Lord Percy was left alone with the British Banner in his liand, his 
horse's hoofs upon the wall I 

" On Britons, on," shrieked Percy, turning in wild haste to the advancing 
columns of infantry — " On and revenge your comrades '." 

At the same moment, from the farther extreme of the graveyard, was 
heard the deep-toned shout — / 



328 THE RATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

" Riders of Santec upon these Uriiisli roWiers ! Upon these British rob- 
bers, who redden our soil with the blood of its children !" 

And then the British infantry, and tlien other bands of British troopers 
came pouring over that fatal wall, upon the graveyard sward ! 

Theit crashing on — one licrce bolt of battle — that band of Rangers burst 
upon the British bayonets; there was crossing of swords and waving of 
banners — steeds mingled with steeds — green unifortns with green uniforms, 
and scarlet with green — now right now left — now backward now forward, 
whirled the fiery whirlpool of that fight — and there, seen clearly and dis- 
tinctly amid the bloody turmoil of that batde, two forms clad in green and 
gold, mounted on golden-hued steeds, with a gallant band of sworn brothers 
all around them, fought their way to each other's hearts ! 

Percy and the dark-visaged Partizan Waldeniar, met in battle ! 

Unknown to each other, the Brothers crossed their swords — the child of 
the proud English Countess, and the son of the wild Indian girl ! Both 
mounted on golden-hued steeds, both attired in dark green velvet, that 
strange resemblance of brotherhood stamped on each face, they met in 
deadly combat ! 

Say was not this Fate ? 

Their swords crossed rose and fell— there was a rapid sound of clashing 
steel, and then with his brother's sword driven through his heart, Lord 
Percy fell ! 

The Indian girl was avenged. 

A wild whirl of the figlit separated Captain Waldcmar from his brother, 
but when the battle was past, in the deep silence of that night, which 
brooded over the batlle-slain, this son of the Indian woman sought out the 
corse of the English Lord froin the heaps of dead. Bending slowly down 
by the light of the moon, he perused the pale fare of Lord Percy ; he lore 
the parquet from his bosoin, he read the testimonial of his mother's mar- 
riage, he read the ofl'ers of favor and patronage, from the old Earl to the In- 
dian woman's son. 

Then he knew that he held the body of a dead brother in his arms. 
Then he tore those offers of favor into rags, but placed the marriage testi- 
monial close to his heart. 

Then he — that half Indian man, in whose veins flowed llie blood of a 
long line of Indian kings mingling with the royal blood of England, he with 
tears in his dark eyes, scooped a grave for liis brother, and buried him 
there. 

And that fair young maiden gazing from the window of that ducal palace, 
far away yonder in the English Isle, that fair young maiden, whose long 
hair sweeps her rose-bud cheeks with locks of midnight darkness — look 
how her deep dark eyes are fixed upon the western skj- ? 

She awaits the return of her betrothed, the gallant Lord Perry. She 
gazes tQ the west, and counts the hours that will elapse ere his coming! 



THE LAST HOUR. 329 

Ah she will count the weeks and the months and the years, and yet he will 
not come. 

He will not come, for deep under the blood-drenched earth of Brandy- 
wine, he the young, the gallant, the brave, rots and moulders into dust. 

And she shall wait there many a weary hour, while her dark eye, dila- 
ting with expectation, is fixed upon that western sky ! Ah that eye shall 
grow dim, that cheek will pale, and yet her betrothed will not come ! 

Ah while her eye gleams, while her heart throbs as if to greet his coming 
footstep, the graveworm is feasting upon his manly brow ! 

And there, in that lonely gravej'ard of Brandywine, without a stone to 
mark his last resting place, unhonored and unwept, the gallant Percy moul- 
ders into dust ! 

XII.— THE LAST HOUR. 

Meanwhile the terror of the fight darkened around the Quaker Temple. 

There is a moment of blood and horror. They fight each man of them 
as though the issue of the field depended upon his separate hand and blow 
•^but in vain, in vain '. 

The enemy swarm from the opposite hills, they rush forward in mighty 
columns superior in force, superior in arms to the brave Continential Yeo- 
men. 

Again they advance to the charge — again they breast the foe — they drive 
him back — they leap upon his bayonets — they turn the tide of fight by one 
gallant eftbrt — but now ! They waver, they fall back, Sullivan beholds his 
Right Wing in confusion — but why need I pursue the dark history further? 

Why need I tell how Washington came hurrying on to the rescue of his 
army, with the reserve under General Greene ? How all his efl^orts of 
superhuman courage were in vain ? How Pulaski thundered into the Bri- 
tish ranks, and with his white-coated troopers at his back, hewed a way for 
himself thro' that fiery batde, leaving piles of dead men on either side ? 

Suffice it to say, tliat overpowered by the superior force of the enemy, 
the continental array retreated toward the south. Suflice it to say, that the 
British bought the mere possession of the field, with a good round treasure 
of men and blood — That if Washington could not conquer the enemy, lie 
at all events saved his army and crippled his foe. 

And there, as the American ariny swept toward Chester, there rushing 
upon the very bayonets of the pursuing enemy was that gallant boy of 
nineteen, imploring the disheartened fugitives to make one effort more, to 
strike yet another blow ! 

It was in vain ! While his warm arm was yet raised on high, while his 
voice 3'et arose in the shout for Washington and freedom, La Fayette was 
wounded near the ancle by a musket ball. The blood of old France 
flowed warmly in the veins of that gallant boy ! 

That glorious French blood of Charlemagne, of Conde, »f Navarre, 



330 THE CATTLE OF.BR ANDYWINE. 

that glorious French blood, whioli in aftertime, making one wide channel 
of the whole earth, flowed on in a mighty river — on to triumph, bearing 
Napoleon on its gory waves ! 

Ah there was warm and generous blood flowing in the veins of that gal- 
lant boy of France ! 

Oh tell me you, wlio are always ready with the sneer, when a young 
man tries to do some great deed, tries with a sincere jicart and steady hand 
to carve himself a name upon the battlements of time — oil tell me, have you 
no sneer for this boy at Brandy wine ? This boy La Fayette, wiio left the 
repose of that young wife's bosom, to fight the baulcs of a strange people 
in a far land ? 

There was a General Howe, my friends, who invited some ladies to 
take supper one night in Piiiladclphia, with this boy La Fayette, and tlien 
sent his troops out to Barren IIill,to trap him and bring him in, — but my 
friends, that night the ladies ale their viands cold, for Sir M illiam failed to 
— " Catch the boy." 

There was a Lord Cornwallis, wiio having encircled the French Mar- 
quis with his troops, there in the forests of Virginia, wrote boaslingly home 
to his king, that he might soon expect a raree-show, for he was determined 
lo " Catch this Boy," and send him home to London. The king had 
his raree-show, but it was ihe news of my Lord Cornwallis's surrender at 
Yorklown, but as for La Fayette, he never saw him, for my Lord Corn- 
Avallis failed lo " Catch the Boy." 

/ XIII.— PULASKI. 

It was at the batfle of Brandywine that Count Pulaski appeared in all 
his glory. 

As he rode, charging there, into the thickest of the battle, he was a war- 
rior to look upon but once, and never forget. 

Mounted on a large black horse, whose strength and beauty of shape 
made you forget the plainness of his caparison, Pulaski himself, with a form 
si.\ feet in height, massive chest and limbs of iron, was attired in a white 
uniform, that was seen from afar, relieved by the black clouds of battle. 
His face, grim with the scars of Poland, was the face of a man who had 
seen much trouble, endured much wrong. It was stamped wilii an expres- 
sion of abiding melanclioly. Bronzed in hue, lighted by large dark eyes, 
with the lip darkened l)y a thick moustache, his throat and chin were cov- 
ered with a heavy beard, while his hair fell in raven masses, from beneath 
his trooper's cap, shielded with a ridge of glittering steel. His hair and 
beard were of the same liue. 

Tiic sword that hung by his side, fashioned of tempered steel, with a hilt 
of iron, was one that a warrior alone could lift. 

It was in tliis array he rode to battle, followed bv a band of three huu- 



I 



- PULASKI. 331 

tired men, whose faces, burnt willi the scorching of a tropical sun, or hard- 
ened by northern snows, bore the scars of many a balile. They were 
mostly Europeans ; some Germans, some Polanders, some deserters from 
the Brilish army. These were the men to light. To be (alien by the 
Brilish would be death, and death on the gibbet ; therefore, they fought 
their best and fought to the last gasp, rather than mutter a word about 
" quarter." 

When they charged it was as one man, their three hundred swords flash- 
ing over their lieads, against the clouds of battle. They came down upon 
the enemy in terrible silence, without a word spoken, not even a whisper. 
You could hear the tramp of their steeds, you could hear the ratdiug of their , 
scabbards, but that was all. ^^ 

Yet when they closed with the British, you could hear a noise lik^Tlie 
echo of a luindred hammers, beating the hot iron on the anvil. You could 
see Pulaski himself, riding yonder in his white uniform, his black steed 
rearing aloft, as turning his head over his shoulder he spoke to his men : 

_ " FORWARTS, BrUDERN, FORWARTS !" 

It was but broken German, yet ihey understood it, those three hundred 
men of sunburnt face, wounds and gashes. With one burst they crashed 
upon the enemy. For a few moments they used their swords, and then 
the ground was covered with dead, while the living enemy scattered in panic 
before their path. 

It was on this battle-day of Brandywine that the Count was in his glory. 
He understood but litde English, so he spake what he had to say with the 
edge of his sword. It was a severe Lexicon, but the British soon learned 
to read it, and to know it, and fear it. All over the field, from yonder 
Quaker meeting-house, away to the top of Osborne's Hill, the soldiers of 
the enemy saw Pulaski come, and learned to know his name by heart. 

That white uniform, that bronzed visage, that black horse with burning 
eye and quivering nostrils, they knew the warrior well; they trembled 
when they heard him say: 

" Forwarts, Briidern, forwarts !" 

It was in the Retreat of Brandywine, that the Polander was most terrible. 
It was when the men of Sullivan — badly armed, poorly fed, shabbily clad — 
gave waj", step by step, before the overwhelming discipline of the British 
host, that Pulaski looked like a ballle-tiend, mounted on his demon-steed. 

His cap had fallen from his brow. His bared head shone in an occa- 
sional sunbeam, or grew crimson with a flash from the cannon or rifle. His 
while uniform was rent and stained ; in fact, from head to foot, he was 
covered with dust and blood. 

Still his right arm was free — still it rose there, executing a British liire- 
ling when it fell — still his voice was heard, hoarse and husky, but strong in 
its every tone — " Forwarts, Briidern !" 

He beheld the division of Sullivan retreating from the field ; he saw the 



332 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. # 

British j'omler, stripping their coals from tlieir backs in the madness of 
pursuit, lie looiieii to tiie South, for Washington, who, witii the reserve, 
under Greene, was hurrying to the rescue, but the American Chief was 
not in view. 

'I'hcn Puhiski was convulsed with rage. 

He rode madly upon the bayonets of the pursuing British, his sword 
gathering victim after victiin ; even there, in front of their whole array, he 
Hung his steed across the path of the retreating Americans, he besought 
tlieni, in broken English, to turn, to make one more ell'ort ; he shouted ill 
lioarse tones that the day was not yet lost ! 

They did not understand his words, but the tones in wh;.;h he spoke 
tluitled their blood. 

"That picture, too, standing out from the clouds of battle — a warrior, con- 
vulsed with passion, covered with blood, leaning over the neck of his steed, 
while his eyes seemed turned to fire, and the muscles of his bronzed face 
writhed like serpents — ^that picture, I say, llllcd many a heart witli new 
courage, nerved many a wounded arm for the tight again. 

Those retreating men turned, they faced the enemy ag,ain — like grey- 
hounds at bay before the wolf — they sprang upon the necks of the foe, and 
bore them down by one desperate cliarge. 

It was at this moment that Washington came rushing on once more to 
the battle. 

Those people know but little of the American General who call him tlie 
American FAnius, that is, a general compounded of prudence and caution, 
with but a spark of enterprise. American Fabius ! When you will show 
me that the Roman Fabius had a heart of fire, nerves of sleel, a soul that 
hungered for the charge, an enterprise that rushed from the wilds like the 
Skippack, upon an army like the British at Germantown, or started from 
ice and snow, like that which lay across the Delaware, upon hordes like 
those of the Hessians, at Trenton — then I will lower Washington down 
into Fabius. This comparison of our heroes, with the barbarian demi-gods 
of Rome, only illustrates the poverty of the mind that makes it. 

Compare Brutus, the assassin of his friend, with Washington, the Sa- 
viour of the People ! Cicero, the opponent of Cataline, with Henry, the 
Champion of a Continent ! What beggary of thought ! Let us learn to 
be a little independent, to know our great men, a^ they were, not by com- 
parison wiih the barbarian heroes of old Kouie. ;• . 

Let us learn that Washington w'as no )UgurtL'e thing, but all chivalry and 
genius. 

It was in the battle of Brandywine that this truth was (nade plain. He 
came rushing on to battle, lie beheld his men hewn down by the British ; 
he heard them slirick his name, and regardless of his personal safety, he 
rushed to join them. 

Yes, it was in the dread havoc of that retreat that Washington, rusliing 



PULASKI. 333 

forward into the very centre of the melee, was cntanj;Ied in the enemy's 
troops, on the toj) of a higli hill, south-west of the Meetinfr Honsc, while 
Pulaski was sweeping on with his grim smile, to have one more bout with 
the eager red coats. 

Washington was in terrible danger — his troops were rushing to the south 
— the British troopers came sweeping up the hill and around him — while 
Pulaski, on a hill some hundred yards distant, was scattering a parting 
blessing among the hordes of Hanover. 

It was a glorious prize, this Mister Washington, in the heart of the 
British army. 

Suddenly the Polander turned — his eye caught the sight of the iron grey 
and his rider. He turned to his troopers ; his whiskered lip wreathed with 
a grim smile — he waved his sword — he pointed to the iron grey and its 
rider. 

There was but one moment : 

With one impulse that iron band wheeled their war horses, and then a 
dark body, solid and compact was speeding over the valley like a thunder- 
bolt torn from the earth — three hundred swords rose glittering in a faint 
glimpse of sunlight — and in front of the avalanche, with his form raised to 
its full height, a dark frown on his brow, a fierce smile on his lip, rode 
Pulaski. I,ike a spirit roused into life by the thunderbolt, he rode — his 
eyes were fixed upon the iron grey and its rider — his band had but one 
look, one will, one shout for — Washington ! 

The British troops had encircled the American leader — already they felt 
secure of their prey — already the head of that traitor, Washington, seemed 
to yawn above the gates of I,ondon. 

But that trembling of the earth in the valley, yonder. AVhat means it ? • 

That i'^r^ble beating of hoofs, what does it portend ? 

That ominous silence — and now that shout — not of words nor of names, 
but that half yell, half hurrah, which shrieks from the Iron Men, as they 
scent their prey ? What means it all ? 

Pulaski is on our track ! The terror of the Brilisii army is in our wake ! 

And on he came — he and his gallant band. A moment and he had swept 
over the Britishers — crushed — mangled, dead and dying they strewed the 
green sod — he had passed over the hill, he had passed the form of Wash- 
ington. 

Another moment ! And the iron band had wheeled — back in the same 
career of death they came ! Routed, defeated, crushed, the red coats flee 
from the hill, while the iron band sweep round the form of George Wash- 
i„„ton — they encircle him with their forms of oak, their swords of steel — 
the shout of his name shrieks Uirough the air, and away to the American 
host they bear him in all a soldier's battle joy. 

It was at Savannah, that night came down upon Pulaski. 

40 



334 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

Yes, I see Iiim now, under the gloom of night, ridinw forward towards 
yonder ramparts, his black steed rearing aloft, while two hundred of his 
Iron men follow at his back. 

llit^Ui on, neither looldiig to ri^ht or left, he riiics, his eye fixed upon lite 
cannon of the British, his sword gleaming over his head. 

For the last time, they heard that war cry — 

«' Forwarts, IJriuiern, Ibrwarts !" 

Then they saw that black horse pliinijing forward, his forefeet resting on 
the cannon of the enemy, while his warrior-rider arose in all the pride of 
his form, his ftice bathed in a flush of red light. 

TJKit flash once gone, they saw Pulaski no more. But thoy fonnd him, 
yes, beneath the enemy's cannon, crushed by the same gun that killed his 
steed — yes, they found them, the horse and rider, resting together in death, 
that noble face glaring in the midnight sky with glassy eyes. 

So in his glory he died. He died while America and Poland were yet 
in chains. lie died, in the stout hope, that both would one day, be free. 
AVilh regard to America, his hope has been fulfilled, but Poland 

Toll me, shall not the day come, when yonder monument — erected by 
those warm Southern hearts, near Savannah — will yield up its dead ? 

For Poland will be free at last, as sure as God is just, as sure as he gov- 
erns the Universe. Then, when re-created Poland rears her Eagle aloft 
again, among the banners of nations, will her children come to Savannah, 
to gather up the ashes of their hero, and bear him home, with the chaunt 
of priests, with the thunder of cannon, with the tears of millions, even as 
repentant France bore home her own Napoleon. 

Yes, the day is coming, when Kosciusko and Pulaski will sleep side by 
side, beneath the soil of Re-cre.vted Poland. 



t 



XIV.— WASHINGTON'S LAST CHARGE AT nilANDYWINE. 

They tell us that he was cold, calm, passionless ; a heart of ice and a 
face of marble. 

Such is the impression which certain men, claiming the title of Philoso- 
pher and Historian, have scattered to the world, concerning our own Wash- 
ington. 

• They compare him with the great man of France. Yes, thev say Napo- 
leon was a man of genius, but Washington a man of talent. Napoleon was 
all fire, energy, sublimity ; Washington was a very good man, it is true, but 
cold, calculating, common-place. 

While they tell the mass of the people that Washington was a saint, 
nay, almost a demi-god, they draw a curtain over his heart, they hide from 
us, under piles of big words and empty phrases, Wasiii.vgton the 
Man. 

You may take the demi-god if you like, and vapor away whole volumes 



WASHINGTON'S LAST CHARGE AT BRANDYWINE. 335 

of verbose admiration on a shadow, but for my part, give me Wasliiiigton 
the Man. 

He ivas a Man. The blood that flowed in his veins, was no Greenland 
current of half-melted ice, but llie warm blond of the South ; fiery as its sun, 
impetuous as its rivers. His was the undying love for a friend ; his, the 
unfathomable scorn for a mean enemy ; his, the inexpressible indignation 
when the spirit of party — that crawling thing, half-snake, half-ape — began 
to bite his heel. 

I like to look at Washington the Man. Nay, even at Washington the 
Boy, dressed in plain backwoodsman's shirt and moccasins, struggling for 
his life, yonder on tlie rafi, tossed to and fro by the waves and ice of 
Alleghany river. 

Or at Washington the young General, silting in his camp at Cambridge, 
the map of the New World before him, as sword by his side, and pen in 
hand, he planned the conquest of the Continent. 

Or yet again, I love to behold Washington the Despised Rebel, sitting so 
calm and serene, among those wintry hills of Valley Forge, while the 
Pestilence thins his camp and Treason plots its schemes for his ruin in 
Congress. Yes, I love to look upon him, even as he receives the letter an- 
nouncing the Cabal, which has been formed b)' dishonest and ambitious 
men, for his destruction ; I see the scorn Hush his cheek and fire his eye ; 
I hear the words of indignation ring from his lips ; as I look, his broad 
chest heaves, his clenched hand grasps his sword. 

And yet in a moment, he is calm again ; he has subdued his feelings of 
indignation, not because they are unjust, but from the sublime reason that 
the Cause in which he is engaged is too high, too holy, for any impulse of 
personal vengeance. 

Here is the great key to AVashington's heart and character. He was a 
Man of strong passions and warm blood, yet he crushed these passions, 
and subdued this fiery blood, in order to accomi)lish the Deliverance of his 
Country. He fervently believed that he was called by God to Deliver the 
New World. — This belief was in fact, the atmosphere of all his actions ; 
it moulded the entire man anew, and prepared the Virginia Planter, the Pro- 
vincial Colonel, for the great work of a Deliverer. 

Tliey tell n.e that he was never known to smile. And yet tliere never 
breathed a man, whose heart bounded more freely at the song and jest, than 
liis. But there was a cause for the deep solemnity, which veiled his face 
when he appeared in public. The image of his Country bleeding on her 
thousand hills, under the footsteps of British Tyranny, was ever before 
him, callinrr as with the voice of a ghost, upon him, her Champion and 
Saviour. 

After the Revolution, there were as substantial and important reasons for 
his solemnity of look and presence as before. 

The country which he had redeemed, was torn by the fangs of party- 



33C THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

spirit. The wolves of fnrlion, who had Iain soinewiiat stilled and subdued 
iliirin!» the war, came out from iheir dens as soon as the day broke over 
tlie long night, and howled their watch-words in the ear of Washington and 
around the Ark of the Country's Freedom. 

How to crusli those creatures, without endangering that Ark, or embroil- 
ing the land in a civil war — this was the thought tiiat always shadowed, 
with deep solemnity, sometimes gloom, the countenance of Washington, the 
President. 

It is a hitter thought to me that the heart of this great, this good, this 
warm-hearted man, was as much torn and pained during his Presidential 
career, by the war of opposing factions, as it was in the Revolution by his 
contest with a British foe. 

'J'o him there never came an hour of rest. His anxiety for his country 
followed him to Mount Vernon, and ended only with his last breath. Too 
pure for a party-man, soaring far above the atmosphere of faction, he only 
held one name, one party dear to his heart — the name and party of the 
American Pkople. 

In order to reveal a new page in this man's character and history, let us 
look upon him in the hour of battle anil defeat. Let ns [lierce the battle- 
mists of liraudywine, and gaze upon him at the head of his legions. 

" Pulaski !" 

The noble countenance of the brave Pole stood out in strong relief from 
the white smoke of battle. That massive brow, surmounted by the dark 
fur cap and darker plume, the aquiline nose, the lip concealed by a thick 
moustache, and the full square chin, the long black hair, sweeping to the 
shoulders — this marked profile was drawn in bold relief, upon the curtain 
of the battle-smoke. An e,\pression of deep sadness stamped the face of 
the liero. 

" I was thinking of Poland !" he exclaimed, in broken accents, as he 
heard his name pronounced by AVashington. 

" Yes," said Washington, with a deep solemnity of tone, " Poland has 
many wrongs to avenge ! But God lives in Heaven, yonder" — he pointed 
upward with his sword — " and he will right the innocent at last !" 

" He will !" echoed the Pole, as his gleaming eye reaching beyond time 
and space seemed to behold this glorious spectacle — Poland free, the cross 
shining serenely over her age-worn shrines, the light of peace glowing in 
her million homes. 

" Pulaski," said Washington, " look yonder !" 

The Polander followed with his eye the gesture of Washington's sword. 
Gazing down the hill, he beheld the last hope of the Continental Army em- 
bosomed among British bayonets ; he saw the wreck of Sullivan's right 
wing yielding slowly before the invader, j'et fighting for every inch of 
ground. He beheld the reserve under Greene, locked in one solid mass, 
faces, hands, musqucts, swords, all turned to the foe ; an island of heroes, 



WASHINGTON'S LAST CHARGE AT ERANDYWINE. 337 

encircled by a sea of British hirelings. The Royal Army extended far 
over the fields to the foot of Osbourne's hill ; liie Red Cross banner waved 
over the walls of the Quaker Temple. Far to the South, scattered bands 
of Continentals were hurrying from the fields, some bearing their wounded 
comrades, some grasping brol;en arms, some dragging their shattered forms 
slowly along. Still that brave reserve of Greene, that wreck of Sullivan's 
right wing, fought around the banner of the Stars, while the Red Cross flag 
glared in their faces from every side. 

The dechning sun shone over the fight, lighting up the battle-clouds with 
its terrible glow. It was now five o'clock. But one hour since the con- 
flict began, and yet a thousand souls had gone from this field of blood up to 
the throne of God ! 

The sky is blue and smiling yonder, as you see it through the rifted 
clouds — look tliere upon the serene azure, and tell me ! Do you not be- 
hold the ghosts of the dead, an awful and shadowy band, clustering yonder 
— ghastly with wounds — dripping with blood — clustering in one solenm 
meeting around tliat Impenetrable Bar ? 

At one glance, Pulaski took in the terrible details of the scene. 

" Now," shouted Washington, " Let us go down !" 

He pointed to the valley with his sword. All his reserve, all his calm- 
ness of manner were gone. 

" Let us go down !" he shouted again. " The day is lost, but we will 
give these British gentlemen our last farewell. Pulaski — do you hear me 
— do you echo me — do you feel as I feel ? The day is lost, but we will go 
down !" 

" Down !" echoed Pulaski, as his eye caught the glow flashing from the 
eye of Washington — "Give way there! Down to the valley, for our last 
farewell !" 

Washington quivered from head to foot. His eye glared with the fever 
of strife. The sunlight shone over his bared brow, now radiant with an 
immortal impulse. 

His hand gathered his sword in an iron grasp — he spoke to his steed — 
the noble horse moved slowly on, through the ranks of Pulaski's legion. 

Those rough soldiers uttered a yell, as they beheld the magnificent form 
of Washington, quivering with battle-rage. 

" Come, Pulaski ! Our banner is there ! Now we will go down !" 

Then there was a sight to see once — and die ! 

Rising in his stirrups, Washington pointed to the fight, and swept down 
the hill like a whirlwind, followed by Pulaski's band, Pulaski himself vainly 
endeavoring to rival his pace, at the head of the iron men. 

General Greene, turning his head over his shoulders, in the thickest of 
the fight, beheld with terror, with awe, the approach of Washington. He 
■would have thrown his horse in the path of the chief, but the voice of 



338 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

Wasliingtoii — terrible in its calmness, irresistible in its rage — thundered 
even amid the clamor of that light. 

" Cirecue — come on !" 

Who couhl resist that look, llie upraised sword, the voice ? 

The hand of I'lilaski thundered by, and Greene followed widi horse and 
foot, with steed and bayonet ! The lire blazing in Washington's eye spread 
like an clcelrie llash along the whole cohinin. The soUlicrs were men no 
longer ; no fear of bayonet or bullet now ! The very horses caught the 
fever of that honr. 

One cry burst like thnnder on the British host: — "Give way there! 
Washington comes to battle !" 

Far down the hill. La Fayette and the Life Guard were doing immortal 
deeds, for the banner of the stars. 

Urows bared, uniforms lluttering in rags, they followed the Boy of Nine- 
teen, into the vortex of the fight, waving evermore that banner overhead. 

They saw Washington come. You should have heard them shout, you 
should have seen their swords how, dripping with blood, they gliltered on 
high. — La Fayette saw Washington come, j-es, the majestic form, the sun- 
lighted brow ! That sight inllamed his blood — 

" Now, La Fayette, come on !" 

They were ranged beside the band of Pulaski, these children of Wash- 
ington ; the gallant Frenchman led them on. 

Thus Washington, Pulaski, Greene, La Fayette, thundered down into 
the fight. It was terrible to hear the tramp of their horses' hoofs. 

Captain Waldemar — the brave j)arlizan — with liie last twenty of his 
riders, was holding a do perate fight with ihriee the number of British 
troopers. — He too beheld Washington come, he too beheld that solid 
column at his back ; with one bound he dashed through the British band ; 
in another moment he was by the side of La Fayette. Washington turned 
to him 

" Waldemar, we go yonder to make our last farewell ! Come on !" 

And tliey went, — yes, Washington at the head of the column led them 
on. With banners waving all along the column, with swords and bayonets 
mingling in one blaze of light, that iron column went to battle. 

The British were in the valley and over the fields ; you might count 
them by thousands. 

There was one horrid crash, a sound as though the earth had yawned to 
engulph the armies. 

Then, oh then, you might see this bolt of battle, crashing into the Bri- 
tish host, as a mighty river rushing into the sea, drives the ocean wavej far 
before it. You might see the bared brow of Washington, far over swords 
and spears ; then might you hear the yell of the British, as this avalanche 
of steel burst on their ranks ! Men, horses, all were levelled before the 
path of Ibis linninn hurrieane. Follow the sword of Washington, yonder, 



WASHINGTON'S LAST CHARGE AT BRANDVV/INE. 339 

two hundred yards right into lli(i heart of the Britiuli army, ho is gone, — 
gone in terrible glory ! On either side swell the British columns, but this 
avalanche is so sudden, so unexpected, that their proud array are for the 
moment paralyzed. 

And now Washington turns again. He wheels, and ids hand wheel with 
him. lie conies back, and liicy come with him. llis sword rises and 
falls, and a thousand swords follow its motion. 

And down — shrieking, torn, crushed, — the focmen are trampled ; another 
furrow of British dead strew the ground. Vain were it to tell the deeds of 
all tlie heroes, in that moment of glory. Greene, La Fayette, Pulaski, 
Waldemaf, the thousand soldiers, all seem to have but one arm, one soul ! 
They struck at once, they shouted at once, at once they conquered. 

" Now," he shouted, as his uniform, covered witli dust and blood, quivered 
with the glorious agitation that shook his proud frame, " Now, we can 

AFFORD TO RETREAT !" 

It was a magniticent scene. 

Washington — his steed halted by the roadside, the men of Pulaski and 
his own life-guard ranged at his back — Washington gazed upon ids legions 
as they swept by. They came with dripping swords, with broken arms; 
— horse and foot, went hurrying by, spreading along the rode to the south, 
while the banner of the stars waved proudly overhead. First, the legions 
of Greene, then tiie band of Waldemar, with the gallant I.a Fayette riding 
in their midst. He was ashy pale, that chivalrous boy, and the manly arnn 
of a veteran trooper held him in the saddle. His leg was shattered by a 
musquet ball. Yet, as he went by, he raised his hand, still grasping that 
well-used sword, and murmured faintly that word his French tongue pro- 
nounced so well — " Washington !" Washington beheld the hero, and smiled. 

" God be with you, my brave friend !" 

Then came the wreck of Sullivan's division, blood-stained their faces, 
broken tlieir arms, wild and wan their looks, sad and terrible iheir shattered 
array. They swept by to the south, their gallant General still wiili his 
band. 

" Now," said Washington, while the Life Guard and Pulaski's men en- 
circled him with a wall of steel, " Now we will retreat !" 

At this moment, while the British recovered from their late panic, were 
rushing forward in solid columns, the face and form of Washington pre- 
sented a spectacle of deep interest. 

He sat erect upon his steed, gazing witli mingled sadness and joy, now 
upon the retrearing Continentals, now upon the advancing British. Around 
him were the stout troopers ; by his side the warrior form of Pulaski, far 
away hills and valleys, clouded with smoke, covered with marching legions ; 
above, the blue sky, seen in broken glunpses — the blue sky and the declin- 
ing sun. 

The blue and buff uniform of the Hero was covered with dust and blo^ri. 



310 THE BATTLE OP BRANDYWINE. 

His sword, lifted in iiis extended arm, was dyed with crimson drops. 

You could see his chest heave aiiain, and iiis eye glare once more : 

'• On, comrades, now wc can all'ord to retreat !" 

And the sunlifrlit poured gladly over the uncovered brow of Washington. 

This was the last incident of the batde ! But an hour since the conflict 
began, and yet the green valley is crowded with the bodies of dead men. 
The Quaker temple throbs with the groans of the dying. The clear spring 
of cold water, down in the lap of the valley, is now become a pool of blood, 
its yellow sands clotted with carnage. 

A thousand hearts, that one brief liour ago, beat with the warmest pulsa- 
tions of life, are now stilled forever. And at tliis dread liour, as if in 
mockery of the scene, tohile the souls of the slain thronged trembling 
to their dread account, the sun set cuhnli/ orer the hallle field, the blue 
sky smiled again — the lirundywine tvcnl laughing on ! 

Let us group together these Legends of tlie past, illustrative of the 
Romance and Tragedy of Brandywine. 

XV.— THE HUNTER-SPY. 

Not in the dim cathedral aisle, where the smoke of the incense ascends 
for evermore, and the image of the Virgin smiles above the allar — not in 
the streets of the colossal city, where the palace and the hut, the beggar aiul 
the lonl, are mingled in the great spectacle of life — not even in the quiet 
home of civilization, where the glow of the hearth-side llamc lights up the 
face of die mother as she hushes her babe to slumber — 

But among the mountains, wliere sky, and rock, and tree, and cataract, 
speak of the presence of their God, — Nature, with her thousand voices, 
sings forever, her anthem of thankfulness and prayer. 

It is a sublime anthem which she sings out yonder, in the untrodden 
Avilderness. The cataract thunders it, as in all the glory of its llashing 
waters, it springs from the cliff into the darkness below. The breeze, too, 
sofdy nuu-MUiring among the tops of the evergreen pines, in the calmness 
of the summer morn, in the shadows of the summer eve, whispers that 
anthem, as wiUi an angel's voice. Tlie sky writes it upon her vault, not 
only in the sun and stars, and moon, but in every feathery cloud that skims 
over its blue dome, in the deep silence of a summer noon. 

Bui at night, when the storm comes out, and mingles cataract and rock, 
forest and sky, in one fierce whirlpool of battle ; then the thunder sings the 
anthem, and the lightning writes it on the unrverse. 

It was noon among the moiintaiiis, nearly a hundred years ago, when the 
sun shone down through the woods upmi tiie waters of a cataract, trem- 
bling in tumultuous beauty on the verge of a granite cliff, ere it dashed into 
the abyss below. 
^ Let us pause upon the verge of this clilV, and gaze upon Nature as she 



THE HUNTER-SPY. 311 

stands before us, clad in the wild glory which she has worn since the hniir 
when " Let there be Light !" from the lips of Divinity, thundered over the 
chaos of the new-born world. 

Upon the verge of the clifj'. Grey and hoary, overgrown with vines, and 
clumps of moss. It trembles beneath our feet — trembles as witli the pulse 
of the cataract. Look yonder — a mass of waters, not fifty yards in width, 
emerging from the foliage, gliding between walls of rocks, gleaming for a 
moment in bright sunshine on tlie edge of darkness, and then dashing in one 
long stream of light and spray, far down into night. 

Look below — ah ! you tremble, you shrink back appalled. That void 
is terrible in its intense blackness. And from that abyss, for evermore, 
arises a dull, sullen sound, like the whispering of a thousand voices. It is 
the cataract, speaking to die rocks which receive it. 

There is a rugged beauty in the spectacle. The woods all around, with 
grey clifl's breaking from the canopy of leaves ; the sky, seen there, far 
above the cataract and its chasm ; the cataract itself, bridged by fallen 
tree. 

A massy oak, rent from the earth by the storm, extends across the cata- 
ract, just where it plunges into darkness. Here, on the western side, you 
behold its roots, half torn from the ground — yonder, on the eastern side, 
its withered branches, strongly contrast with the waving foliage all around. 
And between the rocks and the fallen tree, glide the waters, ere they dash 
below. 

As we stand here, on this rock, leaning over the darkness, tell me, does 
not the awful silence of these primeval woods — only broken by the eternal 
anthem of the mountain stream — strike your hearts with a deep awe ? 

Another music shook the wooils an hour ago. Strange sounds, scarce 
ever heard in these woods before ; sounds deeper than the roar of the cata- 
ract, yet not so loud as thunder. Distant shouts, too, like the yell of mad- 
dened men, were borne upon the breeze, and, for a moment, the cataract 
seemed to hush ilself into silence, as a horrible chorus of groans broke over 
tlie woods. 

What meant these sounds, disturbing the sanctity of the Almighty's 
forest ? We cannot tell ; but, only yesterday, a b*ave band of men, altired 
in scarlet and gold, with bayonets gleaming over their heads, passed this 
way in solid columns. 

Only yesterday, their commander — a man of courdy look and glittering 
apparel — rode through these woods, pointing gaily with his sword, as the 
warm hope of victory flushed his face : while at his side, journeyed a young 
man, with thoughtful eye and solemn face. The commander was ciad in 
scarlet and gold— the young man, in blue and silver. The commander was 
General Draddock ; the young man. Colonel Washington. 

All day long the sounds of battle, borne from afar by the breeze, have 
shrieked through the woods, but now all is still. 

41 



343 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

Yet hold — there is a orashingf sound among the branches, on lliis wostorn 
side of the waterfall— look ! A f:\ce is seen amonsj the leaves, another, and 
anollier. Three faces, wan, and wild, and bloody. In a nionienl, three 
forms spring from the covert and stand upon this rock, gazing around upon 
chasm, and wood, and sky, with the wild irl^ire of hinilcd li^erc. 

The first form, standing on the verge of the clilV, with the bltie uniform, 
fluttering in ribbands over his broad chest, and spoiled with blood on the 
arms. A man in the prime of life, with brown hair clustering aromul his 
brow, and a blue eve lighting up his sunburnt lace. Though his uniform is 
rent and torn, you can recognize the Provincial Sergeant in the native troops 
of General Hraddock's army. 

At his back stand two Uiitish regiilars, clad in scarlet, with long military 
boots upon each log, and heavy grenadier caps upon each brow. As they 
gaze around — their weaponless hands dripping with blood — a curse breaks 
from each lip. 

" Don't swear," exclaims the Sergeant, as he turns from the chasm to 
his brother soldiers. " It's bad enough as it is, without swearing ! It's 
like to drive nie mad when I think of it ! Only yesterday we hurried on, 
throujh these very woods, and now — ugh ! D'ye remember what we saw, 
by the banks of the river, not an hour ago ? Piles of dead men, those men 
our comrades, each brow with the scalp torn from the scull — little rivers of 
blood, each river running over the sod, and pouring into the Monongahela, 
until its waves became as red as your uniform. Ah ! I tell you, boys, it 
makes a man sick to think of it !" 

" .\nd them Injins," exclaimed the tallest of the Hrilish soldiers, " how 
like born devils they screech ! The fightin' I don't mind, but I confess the 
screechin' hurts one's fcelin's." • 

The other soldier, with a darkening brow, only muttered a single word, 
hissing it, as with the force of his soul, through his set teeth : 

" The Spy !" 

At that word, the -Sergeant started as though bitten by a rattle-snake. 
His face, so frank in its hardj* manliness of expression, was violently con- 
torted, his hands clenched. 

" Aye, the Spy !" he fowled : " Would that I had him here !" 

He bent over the chasm, his blue eye glaring with dangerous light, as his 
fingers quivered with the frenzy of revenge. 

" Would that I had him here, on this rock ! By that home which I never 
Iiope to see again, I would give my life to hold him, for one moment oidy, 
on the verge of this rock, and then — " 
[ " Send him yelling down into the pool below !'' added the tall soldier. 

The other soldier merely wiped the blood from his brow, and muttered 
a deep oath, coupled with the ominous words — " The Spy !" 

" Come, my boys, we must hurry on !" cried the Sergeant, his form 
rising proudly in the sunlight. — " Them Injin devils are in our rear, and 



THE HUNTER. SPY. 343 

you know tlie place where all us fellows, who doiit happen lo he killed, are 
to meet ! Aye, aye ! Cotne on ! Over this fallen tree be our way !" 

Followed by the regular soldiers, the Provincial Sergeant crosses the 
fearful bridge. You see them quivering there, with but a foot of unhewn 
timber lietwcen them and the blackness of the chasm ; the sunbeam lights 
up their tattered uniform and blood-stained faces. 

In the centre of the fallen tree, even while the roar of the cataract deafens 
his ears, the Sergeant suddenly turns and confronts his comrades : 

" Did n't he look beauliful (" he shouts ; and his eye flashes, and his 
cheek glows — " Yes, beauliful's the word ! I mean our young Virginia 
Colonel, charging in the thickest of the fight, with his sword uplifted, and 
his forehead bare ! Did you see his coat, torn by the bullets, which pattered 
about him like hail-stones ? And then, as he knelt over the dyin' General, 
shielding him from bullet and tomahawk, at the hazard of his life, — 1 vow 
he did look beautifid !" 

As he speaks, his form trembles witli the memory of the battle, and the 
tree trembles beneath him. 'I'he Ikitish soldiins do not speak a word — 
their position is too fearful for words — but with upraised arms they beseech 
the Sergeant to hurry on. 

Across the perilous bridge, and along this eastern rock — a murmur of joy 
escapes from each lip. 

Then, through the thickly-gathered foliage, into this forest-arbor, formed 
by the wild vines, hanging from the limbs of this centuried oak. 

A quiet place, with gleams of sunshine escaping through the leaves, and 
lighting up the mossy sod, and llie massive trunk of the grand old tree. 

What means that half-muttered shriek, starting from each heart, and 
hushed by the biting of each lip ? 

The Sergeant starts back, places a hand on the moutii of each soldier, and 
his deep whisper thrills in cars — 

" In the name of Heaven be still !" 

Then every breath is hushed, and every eye is fi.xed upon the cause of 
that strange surprise. 

There, at the foot of the tree, his head laid against its trunk, his limbs 
stretched along the sod, slumbers a man of some fifty years, one arm bent 
under his grey hairs, while the other clasps the barrel of a rifle. Gaze 
upon that sunburnt face, pinched in the lips, hollow in the cheeks, the brow 
narrow and contracted, the hair and eyebrows black, sprinkled with grey, 
and tell me, is it not the index of a mean heart, a cankered soul ? 

"•-e form, clad in the shirt, leggins and moccasins of one of the outcasts 

.lization, in whom were combined the craft of the pale face, with the 

jity of the savage, is lean, straight and angular, with the sinews gathered 

ound the bones like iron thongs. 

And while the three soldiers, with darkening faces, gaze upon him, he 
sleeps on, this wild hunter of the wild woods. 



344 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

Do you see that silken purse, slightly protruding from the breast of the 
coarse hunting shirt. Look — even as the sunbeam falls upon it, the gleam 
of golden guineas shines from its net-work. 

There is a strange story connected with that silken purse, with its golden 
guineas. 

Not ten days ago, the British General was encountered in the wild forest 
of the Alleghany mountains, by a tall hunter, who offered to act as his guide 
to Fort Pitt, where the FrencJi held their position. The ollor was accepted 

the reward fifty guineas. The young (-olonel Washington distrusted this 

hunter — traitor was stamped on his face — but Braddock laughed at his 
distrust. 

The guide led them forward — led them into the ambush of this morning, 
and then disappeared. 

At this moment, five hundred hearts are cold on Braddock's field — there 
are an hundred little rills of blood pouring into the waves of Monongahela 
river; Braddock himself lies mangled and bleeding in the arms of Wash- 
ington ; — and here, in this arbor of the wild wood, lulled to rest by the an- 
them of the cataract, sleeps the hunter-guide, with the silken purse and its 
fifty guineas, protruding from his breast. E\'ery guinea bears on its surface 
the head of King Louis. Every guinea was given as the price of a life, 
and yet there is no blood upon them ; but the sun, shining through the 
foliage lights them with a mild, warm glow. 

And all the while the three soldiers stand there, biting their lips, and 
clenching their hands together. There is something fearful in this ominous 
silence. 

At last the Sergeant advances, stealthily, it is true, yet the sound of his 
footstep echoes through the wood. Still the Hunter sleeps on. Then with 
a rude knife he severs a piece of the wild vine, ties one end around a pro- 
jecting limb of the oak, pushes the leaves aside, and you behold the other 
end dangling over the chasm. 

A flood of sunlight rushes in through the opening, bathes with its glow 
the darkened face of the Sergeant, and the withered face of the sleeping 
man. Around the form of the Sergeant, so vigorous in its robust manhood, 
extends the mass of foliage, like a frame around a picture. For a moment, 
he stands there, on the edge of the eastern rock, the grape vine dangling in 
one hand, while his straining eye peruses the darkness of the abyss. 

As he turns to his comrades again, he utters this singular sentence in a 
whisper : 

" Does n't it seem to you that a man tied to this grape-vine by the neck, 
and forced to leap from the rock, would stand a mighty good chance of 
being — hung ?" 

A grim smile passes over each face — still the hunter sleeps on ; he sleeps 
the sound slumber of hardship and toil. 



THE HUNTER-SPY. 345 

Presently the Sergeant advances, shakes him roughly by the shoulder, 
and shouts in his ear — 

" Come, Isaac, get up. To-day you die !" 

The sleeping man quivered, opened his eyes, beheld the darkened face 
above, and then clutched for his rifle. 

With a sudden movement, the Sergeant flings it beyond his reach. 

" You know me, Isaac. You see tlie blood upon my coat. You know 
your doom. Get up, and say your pra3'crs." 

Tliis was said in a very low voice, yet every word went to the Hunter's 
heart. In silence he arose. As he stood erect upon the sod, it might be 
seen that he was a man of powerful frame and hardened sinews. He gazed 
from face to face, and then toward the clifl' — his countenance changed from 
sunburnt brown to asky paleness. 

"What d'ye mean?" he falters. "You don't intend mischief to an 
old man ?" 

Paler in the face, tremulous in each iron limb — ah ! how cowardice and 
crime transform a man of iron sinews into a trembling wretch ! 

" Say your prayers, Isaac," was the only answer which awaited him. 
As the Sergeant spoke, the light in his blue eye grew wilder ; he trembled 
from his heart to his finger-ends, but not with fear. 

Again the Hunter raised his stealthy grey eye, ranging the arbor with a 
glance of lightning-like rapidity. All hope of escape was idle. 

"Let me finish iiim with the knife !" growled the tall soldier. 

" Say the word, Sergeant, and I'll send a bullet from liis own rifle through 
his brain !" 

"I know'd ye when ye was a boy, down yander in the hills of old Vir- 
ginny, Isaac," said the Sergeant ; " and know'd ye for a liar and thief. 
Now ye're grown to a tolerable good age — grey hairs, and wrinkles, too, — 
1 know ye for a traitor and a murderer !" 

" But, Jacob, you won't kill me here, like a dog ?" exclaimed the Hunter, 
in a hollow voice. 

" There's a matter of five or six hundred men dead, this hour, on yonder 
batdefield. Not only dead, but mangled — their skulls peeled — ugh! It's 
an ugly word, I know, but it's a fact — their skulls peeled, and their bodies 
cut to pieces by musquet balls and tomahawks. You did it all, Isaac. You 
sold your countrymen — your flesh and blood, as I might say, and sold 'em 
to the French and Injins. Come, Isaac, say your prayers !" 

There was a strange contrast between the broad, manly figure of the 
Sergeant, rising to its full stature, and the slender form of the Hunter, 
cringing as from the danger of a threatened blow. The sunlight fell over 
both faces, one flushed with a settled purpose, the other livid with the e.v 
tremity of fear. In the shadows of the woody arbor the British soldiers 
stood, awaiting in silence the issue of the scene. 



346 THE BATTLE OF BKANin'WINE. 

Ami ever and anon, in the pauses of the fearful conversation, tlie cataract 
howled below. 

" I've no prayers to say," said the Hunter, in a dogged tone. " Come — 
murder me — if you like, I'm ready !" 

Tliere was something sublime in the courage of. the Coward, who 
trembled as with an ague fit, as he said the words. 

Tlie words, the tone, the look of the man seemed to touch even the de- 
termined heart of the Sergeant. 

" But you may have a wife, Isaac, or a cliild — " lie faltered — " You may 
wish to leave some message ?" 

" I may have a wife and ciiild and I may not," said the Hunter, quietly 
baring his throat. " Come, if you're goiu' to murder me, begin !" 

Then commenced a scene, whose quiet horror may well chill the blood in 
our veins, as we picture it. 

The Sergeant advanced, seized the end of the grape-vine, and, while the 
wretch trembled in his grasp, knotted it firmly about his neck, gaunt and 
sinewy as it was. 

The doomed man stood on the cdirc of the clilV. — Below him boiled the 
waters. — above him smiled the sky. His deaihsman was at his side. 

For a moment, the Hunter turned toward the comrades of the Sergeant. 

" Kill liiin like a dog !" growled one of the soldiers. 

" Iteniember the battle, and choke him until Ins eyes start !" exclaimed 
the other. 

The ej-e of the miserable man wandered to tlie fiice of his E.xecutioner. 
Calm and erect the Sergeant stood there ; the only signs of agitation which 
he manil'csted, were visible in a slight tremulous motion of his lip, a sudden 
paleness of his cheek. 

" Ain't there no pity ?" whined the Himter. " Ye see I'm not fit to die 
— the waterfall skeers me. IN'o pity, did ye say .'" 

" None !" thundered the Sergeant, and with one movement of his arm 
pushed the doomed man from the rock. 

Then — as the limb quivered with the burden of the fearful fruit which it 
bore — as the blackened face and starling eyes, and protruding tongue glowed 
horribly in the sunliglit — as one long, deep cry of agony mingled with the 
roar of the cataract — the Sergeant seized the purse of guineas and hurled it 
far down into the darkness of the chasm. 

" Let the traitor's gold go with his soul !" he cried, as the coin, escaping 
from the purse, sparkled like spray-drops through the air. 

The level rays of the setting sun streamed over the dead man's face. 

All was desolate and silent in llie forest — the Sergeant and his comrades 
liad passed on tlieir way — the deep anthem of the waterfall arose to tlie 
sunset Heaven. 

There was a footstep on the fallen tree, and a boy of some twelve years. 



THE IIUNTER-SPY. 347 

bearing a burden 011 his back, came tripping liglilly over the cataract. He 
was roughly clad, in a dress of wild deer's hide, yet there was a frankness 
about his sunburnt face, a daring in his calm grey eye, which made you 
forget his uncouth attire. As he came bounding on, as fearlessly as though 
the floor of some quiet home were lieneath him — the breeze tossed his 
brown hair aside from his face, until it waved in curls of glossy softness. 

" Father !" his young voice resounded through the woods, clear and shrill 
as the tones of careless boyhood. " Father, do you sleep yet ?" he cried, 
as he crossed the tree. " You know I went tljis morning to the Indian's 
wigwam to procure food and drink for you. Here it is — I'm safe back 
again. Father, I say !" 

Again he called, and still no answer. 

He stood on the astern side of tlie waterfall, near the forest arbor. 

"Ah! I know what you're about!" he laughed, with childish gaiety. 
" You want rae to tliink you're asleep — you want to spring up and frighten 
me ! Ha, ha, ha !" 

And gaily laughing, he went through the foliage, and stood in the forest 
arbor — stood before the dead man. 

His FATHER, hanging by the grape-vine to the oaken limb, his feet above 
the chasm, the sunset glow upon his face. That face as black as ink ; the 
eyes on the check; the purpled tongue lolling on the jaw — Ids father ! 
Every breath of air that stirred waved his grey hairs about his brow, and 
swayed his slilTened body to and fro. 

The boy gazed upon it, but did not weep. His fiither might be a thief, 
traitor, murderer, but the son knew it not. The old man was kind to^him 
— yes, treacherous to all the world, he loved his motherless child ! 

" Father .'" the boy gasped, and the bread and bottle which he bore on 
his shoulders, fell to the ground. 

He ajijiroached and gazed upon the body of the dead man. You might 
see a twitching of the muscles of his young face, a strange working of the 
mouth, an elevation and depression of the eye-brows, but liis grey eyes 
were undimmed by a tear. There was something terrible in the silent 
sternness with which tiie child gazed into his murdered father's face. 

Tiiere was a paper pinned to the breast of the dead man, a rough paper 
scrawled with certain uncouth characters. The boy took the paper — he 
could not read — but carefully folding it, he placed it within the breast of his 
jacket, near to his heart. 

Twenty years afterward, that paper was the cause of a cold-blooded and 
horrible murder, wild and unnatural in its slightest details. 

Long and earnesdy llie boy stood gazing upon that distorted face. The 
same sunbeam that shone upon the visage of the dead, lighted up the singu- 
lar countenance of the boy. 

At last, approaching the edge of tlie elift', he took his father's hands within 
his own. They were very cold. He placed his hands ijpon the old man's 



318 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYVVINE. 

face. It was clammy and moist. The boy began to shudder with a fear 
liitherto imknowii to him. For the first time, he stood in the presence of 
Doath. 

His broken ejacuhitions were calculated to touch the hardest heart. 

" Father !" lie would wliisper, " you aint dead, are you ? If you are 
(lead what '11 I do ? Come, fjliier, and tell me ye aint dead ? Father ! I 
say, father I" 

As the sun went down, that cry quivered through the woods. 

The moon arose. Still by her pale liglit, there on the verge of the cliff", 
stood the boy, gazing in his father's face. 

" I'll cut him down, that's what I'll do !" he said, taking a hunter's knife 
from his girdle. 

Standing on tip-toe he hacked the grape-vine with the knife ; it snapped 
with a sharp sound: she boy reached forth liis arms to grasp his father's 
body ; for a moment he held it trembling there, the blackened face silvered 
by the light of the moon. 

But his grasp was feeble, compared to the weight which it sustained, and 
the body passed from his hands. There was a hissing sound in the air — a 
dead pause — a heavy splash in the waters below. 

'J'he boy knelt on the rock and gazed below. I confess, as I see him 
kneeling there, the light of the moon upon his waving locks — the silence of 
nigiit only broken by the eternal anthem of the cataract, — that I cannot 
contemplate without a shudder, that sad and terrible pi •lure : 

'J'he Hoy, leaning over the rock, as he gazes with straining eyes, far down 
into the darkness of the abyss, for the dead body of iiis Father ! 

XVI. —THE SON OF THE IIUXTER-SI>V. 

The gleam of the hearthslde taper flashed far over the valley of the Bran- 
dywine. From the upper window of that peaceful home, it flamed a long 
and quivering ray of golden light. 

The old house stood alone, some few paces from the r )a(!, at least an 
liundred yards from the waters of the Brandywine. A small fabric of dark 
grey stone, standing in the centre of a slope of grassy sod, with steep roof, 
narrow windows, and a rustic porch before the door. On either side of the 
grassy slope, the woods darkened, thick and luxuriant ; above, the universe 
of stars shed their calm, tranquil light, over tlie slumbering valley; fl'Oni 
afar, the musical murmur of the waves, rolling over their pebbled bed, broke 
the deep silence of the night. 

Let us look through the darkness, and by the clear starlight, bshol'" ihi? 
small two-storied fabric, in all its rustic beauty, while yonder, not twer.' .- 
yards distant, a hay-rick rises from the level of the sod. All is still arq- . 
this home of Brandywine, — the house, the gently-ascending slope, thr ^ 
nical hay-rick, the surrounding woods, present a picture of deep repose. 



m 



THE SON OF THE HUNTER-SPY. 349 

We will enter the home, yes, into the upper room, from whose narrow 
window the ray of the fireside taper, gleams along the shadowy valley. 

All old man, sitting easily in his oaken arm-chair, the glow of the candle 
upon his wrinkled face and snowy hairs. The smoke of his pipe winds 
around his face and head ; his blue eyes gleaming with calm light, and 
composed features, and attitude of careless ease, all betoken a mind at peace 
with God and man. 

On one side you behold his couch, with its coverlid of unruflled white ; 
yonder a rude table, placed beneath a small mirror, with a Bible, old and 
venerable, laid upon its surface. There is a narrow hearth, simmering with 
a slight fire of hickory faggots ; beside the hearth, you see the door of a 
closet, its panels hewn of solid oak, and darkened into inky blackness by 
the touch of time. 

In the centre of the room, his calm face glowing in the light of the candle, 
sits the old man, coat and vest thrown aside, as he quietly smokes his 
grateful pipe. As he knocks the ashes from the bowl, you may see that 
he is one-armed ; for the right arm has been severed at the shoulder : the 
sleeve dangles by his side. 

You will confess that it is but a quiet, nay, a tame picture, which I have 
drawn for you — an old and one-armed man, smoking his evening pipe, ere 
he retires to rest, his wrinkled face melowed with unspeakable content, his 
blue eyes gleaming from beneath the thick grey eye-brows, as with the 
light of blessed memories. 

And yet this scene, placed beside another scene which will occur ere an 
hour passes, might well draw tears from a heart of granite. 

Suddenly the old man places his hand against his brow, his mild blue 
eye moistens with a tear. His soul is with the past — with the wife who 
now sleeps the last slumber, under the sod of the Quaker graveyard — with 
the scenes of battle in the dim forests, where the rifle-blaze streams redly 
over the leaves, and the yell of the Indian mingles witii the war of the 
cataract. 

All at once there comes a memory which blanches the old man's cheek, 
fills with wild light his calm blue eye. Looking back into time, he beholds 
a dim recess of the forest, perched above the waters of the cataract, the sun- 
beam playing over its moss, while the face of a dead man glares horribly in 
the last flush of the sunset hour. 

The Old man rises, paces tlie floor, with his only hand wipes the moisture 
*■ , 

he murmurs — " He had betrayed a thousand brave mea 

ed!" 

' here he might, through that quiet room, he beheld a dead 

.an, suspended to the limb of a forest oak, witli the sunlight — that last red 

&uih lif sunset, which is so beautiful — playing warmly over the livid features. 

This you will confess, was a terrible memory, or a strange frenzy. An 

42 



350 THE BATTLE OF URANDVWINE. 

olil man whose life for at least twenty years, had been spent in the scenes 
of a quiet lioine, to buhokl a liviil face, working convulsively in death, 
wherever he turned I 

" 1 know not why it is, hut wherever I turn, I seem to see — yes, I do 
see — a dead man's face ! And whenever I try to think of my dead wife, I 
liear a voice repealing — '//ijs uif^hl, this nis^ht you ilie .'" " 

As the old man spoke, resuaiing his pipe, a sliijhl sounil disturbed the 
silence of the room, lie turned, and there, like a picture framed by the 
rough timbers of the doorway, beheld the form of a young girl, clad slightly, 
in iier niirlit-dress wilh a mass of brown hair alioUt her neck and shoulders. 

One hand was raised, iho finger to her lip, and the round white arm, 
gleaming in llio liuht ; the oilier grasped the handle of llie door. 

There was sonielhing very beautiful in the sight. 

Not that her dress was fashioned of silk or purple, or that her white 
neck shone with the gleam of diamonds or pearls. Ah, no ! Her dress 
was made of coarse homespun cloth ; it left her arms, and neck, and feel, 
bare to the light. Still there was a beauty about her young face, which 
glowed on the lips and cheeks, wilh tlie warmth of a summer dawn, and 
shone in the deep blue eyes, with the traiujuil loveliness of a slailiglil 
night. 

Her hair too ; you cannot say that it gathered in curls, or lloated in 
tresses ; but to tell the sober truth, in color it was of that rich brown which 
deepens into black, and waving from her while forehead, it fell in one glossy 
mass, down to the white bosom, which had never been milled by a thought 
of sin. 

AVith regard to the young form, whose outlines gleamed on you, even 
from the folds of her coarse dress, you could not atlirm that it rivalled the 
dream of the Sculptor, the Venus de Medici, or burst f«rth in all the 
majestic beauty of one of Raphael's Painted Poems. It was but the Ibrm 
of a Peasant Uirl, rcmiiuiing you in every hue and outline, of a wild forest 
rose, that flourishing alone amid large green leaves, trembles on the verge 
of its perfect bloom ; not so gorgeous as a hot-house plant, still very warm, 
and very loveable, and very beautiful. 

And she stood there, even on the direshold, her finger to her lip, gazing 
with a look of wild alarm, upon the wrinkled face of her father, the one- 
armed schoolmaster of Pranilywine. 

" Mary !" the old man exclaimed, his eyes expanding wilh wonder. 

" Hush, father ! Do you not hear the tread of armed men ? Listen ! 
Do you not hear the raiding of arms ? Hark ! That dccp-toned- whisper, 
coupled wilh an oath — ' Mai/litnd the spy — break the door — arrest, and 
bear him to the British camp .'' " 

And while the word trembled on her lip, a dull, heavy sound broke like 
a knell upon the air. It was the crashing of a inuskcl-stock against the 
door of the schoolmaster's home. 



THE SON OF THE HUNTER-SPY. 351 

'•Fly! For God's sake, fly !" exclaimed IMary, darting forward, and 
laying her while iiand on the old man's arm. 

" Fly !" he echoed, witli a bewildered look — " Wherefore ? Whom 
have I wronged, that 1 should lly from my own home at midnight, like a 
hunted beast ?" 

In brief words, uttered with gasping breath and tremulous bosom, the 
Daughter revealed the strange secret : 

" A week ago, you gave shelter to an old man, clad in tlic garb of forest- 
hunter. That man left in your charge a pacqnet, which you promised to 
transmit witliout delay, to the Camp of Washington !" 

" And did so, this very morning." 

" That pacquet was stolen from the camp-cliest of General Mowe. It 
rnntained his plans of balde — Now do you guess wherefore the IJritit'ii sol- 
diers surround your house, whispering your name as 'Mayland tlie Spy V " 

The old man's countenance fell. 

"Oh, that I had my own good right arm again !" he cried, after a mo- 
ment's pause — "I woidd defy the whole pack of red-coat hounds !" 

Harsh language, lliis ! lUit it must be confessed tliat the old school- 
master was prejudiced against the )}ritish ; he liad seen but one -side of the 

question aye, read it too, in the smouldering ruins of the homes ihey had 

burned, in the livid faces of the farmers they had butchered. 

The Teasant Girl— clad liglidy as she was, in her night dress— tripped 
sofdy to the opposite side of the room, and opened the closet door. In a 
moment, she had torn the loose boards from the floor. 

"Father, the way of escape lies before you! Tliis ladder descends 
from the closet into the cellar ; from the cellar a subterranean passage leads 
to the side of the hill ! Quick— there is no time to be lost! For God's 

sake — fly !" 

' The ladder was used as a stairway in the old times ; the underground 
l,assage was made in the time o' the Injings," murmured the old man. 
" But my daughter, who will protect you ?" 

" They seek not to harm me," she hurriedly exclaimed—" Hark ! Do 
you hear their shouts ?" 

And, as if in answer to her words, there came a hoarse and murmuring 
cry from beneath the windows. 

"One blow, and we'll force the door!" a deep voice was heard— " Re- 
member, comrades ! a hundred guineas, if we catch the Spy !" 

■he old man hesitated no longer. Placing a foot on the ladder, he began 

scend. His daughter bending over him, held the light in hor extended 

its rays lighte'd his grey f.airs, and warmed the soft outlines of 

"'" Quick, father!" she gaspingly whispered-" The passage leads out on 
the hill-side, near the hay-stack ! Ha ! he descends-one moment more 
and he will stand in the passage ! Another moment, and he will be free !", 



352 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

Holding the light above her head, she swept her brown hair aside from 
her lace, ami pizcd into ihe ilarkness beneath with dilatinjs- eyes. 

Slill from beneath tlie windows arose that hoarse cry ; again the crash of 
niusquet-stocks against the door. 

" In trull), tliec father is in great danger," said a mild voice, which made 
the young girl start as though she had trod on a serpent's fang. 

She turniHl, and beheld a man of slender frame, clad in the plain garb of 
the Quaker failh. Gaze upon hira and tell me, in that contracted face, with 
sharp nose and hawk-like grey eyes, thin lips and brown hair, curling to 
the shoulders, do you recognize some Memory of the Past ? 

Does it look like the face of the IIunler-lS|)y, who hung above the 
chasm, long years ago, or like the countenance of his Son, the laughing boy, 
whose blood was congealed to ice, by tlie vision of the murdered man ? 

"Gilbert Gates'." exclaimed Mary; "here, too, in this hour of peril! 
'J'hcn indeed, does evil threaten us !" 

" Maiden, thee wrongs me," exclaimed that soft and insinuating voice. 
" Passing along the valley, on the way to my farm, which — as thee knows 
■^lies near Brenton's ford, [ beheld thee father's house surrounded by 
armed men, who clamored for his blood. I found entrance by a back 
window, and am here to save thee." 

"Hurst open the door!" arose the shout from beneath the windows. 
" We'll trap the Uebel in his den !" 

" You here to save me ?" exclaimed Mary, as she blushed from the 
bosom to the brow with scorn. " I tell you man, there is Traitor on your 
forehead and in your eye !" 

" Look thee, maiden — but two hours ago, thee father did reject the offer 
of marriage which I made to thee, with words of bitterness and scorn. 
Now he is threatened with death — nay, smile not in derision — thy lionor ia 
menaced with ruin ! Be mine — yea, consent to receive my hand in mar- 
riage, and 1 will save ye ! 

" Ah ! his footsteps are in the cellai^lie gains the passage — ^he is saved !" 
exclaimed Mary, as she flung the rays of the light into the gloom below. 
" Be yours I" and while every pulse throbbed tumultuously with loathing, 
she turned to the strange man by her side — " Neither your assumed dress, 
nor awkward attempt at the Quaker dialect, cm deceive me ! I know you 
— scorn you ! Nay, do not advance — I am but a-weak girl, but dare to 
pollute me, with but a linger's touch, and as heaven nerves my arm, 1 will 
brain you with this oaken brand !' 

She stood on the verge of the closet, one hand grasping the light, while 
the otlier raised aloft a solid piece of oak, which she had seized from Uia 
floor. 

You can see the man of slender figure and Quaker dress shrink back ap- 
palled. A wild light blazes in his grey eye ; his long, talon-like lingers are 
pressed convuLsively against his breast. Suddenly his hard features were 



THE RON OF THE IIUNTEn-SPY. J53 

Boflenpil by a look of emotion, wliicli [ilayed over his face like a sunbeam 
ti-tinblirif,' on a rock of frranite. 

" Maiden, (lid thee know my life — MV oath — thee would not taunt me 
tlius. Hi: died (done in /he wild rvood — ah, even now, I see the mmnet 
flush vpon his iqjface! My father — the only friend I ever had — the only 
thing I ever loved. Maiden, become mine, and alj shall be forgotten — all, 
even my oath !" 

Clasping his hands, while his cold grey eyes were wet with tears, he ad- 
vanced, and gazed upon the warm bloom of the maiden's face. 

For a moment, she gazed upon him, while the (lush of scorn, which red- 
dened her cheeks, was succeeded by a look of deep compassion. 

Again that deep roar beneath the windows — hark '. A crash — a wild yell 
— " \Vv have the Rebel up stairs, and the guineas are ours !" 

" Does thee consent ?" exclaimed Gilbert Gates, advancing a single step. 
" Ha ! The door between the cellar and the passage is unfastened ! 
But I will save my father at the hazard of my life !" 

With one bound she flung herself upon the ladder, and with tlie light 
above her head, descended into the darkness of the cellar. As she went 
down, her hair fell wavingly over her neck and shoulders, over the bosom 
which heaved tumulluously into the light. 

Gilbert Gates in his Quaker garb, with his hands folded over his narrow 
chest, stood alone in the darkness of the schoolmaster's bed-room. All 
was darkness around him, yet there was a light within, which burned his 
heart-strings, and filled his blood with liquid lire. 

Darkness around him ; no eye to look upon the wrilhings of his face; and 
yet, even there through the gloom, he beheld that fearful vision — a dead 
man swinging over the abyss of a cataract, with the sunset flush upon his 
icy face. 

Suddenly there was the sound of trampling feet upon the stairs ; then the 
blaze of torches flashed into the room, and some twenty forms dressed in 
the attire of Tory Refugees — half-robber, half-soldier — came rushing over 
the threshhold. 

"The schoolmaster — where is he?" exclaimed their leader, a burly ruf- 
fian, with crape over his face, and a white belt across his breast. " Speak, 
Gilbert !" 

" The Spy !" echoed the deep voices of the Tories, as they waved their 
les, their rilles, and their knives, above their heads. 
Yes, Smoolhspeech, Where's the schoolmaster, and the purty roltin his 
ter. Folly ;" cried a voice which issued from a mass of carbuncled 
hicli in its turn, surmounted by a huge form clad in scarlet. "A 
guineas for the lass, you know ; eh, comrades ?" 
■J IK; ...jswer of Gilbert was short and concise. 

" In truth, it seems to me, the old man Mayland and his daughter Mary, 
are even now in the cellar, attending to their household allairs !" 



354 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

With one movement, the Tory Captain and his comrailes rushed down 
tlie stairway. 

(iilbert approaciied the closet; a light, gleaming from the cellar below, 
bathed his face in a red glare. 

" lie will emcrp;e from the passage on the hillside, near the hay-stack," 
he niultered, while a demoniac look worked over his contracted face.— 
" Fairer tombs have I seen — but none so warm !" 

• As he gazes down the narrow passage, the light from beneath, reddening 
his face, while his slender form quivers with a death-like agony : Let us 
go back through the vista of twenty years, and behold the boy gazing into 
the darkness of the chasm, in search of his father's corse. 

Wiio, in the cold-featured, stony-eyed Gilbert Gates, would recognize the 
boy with laughing eyes and flowing hair ? 



The blaze of torches illumined the cellar. 

Before a door of solid oak, which separated the cellar from the subterra- 
nean passage, the Tories paused. Then deep-muttered oaihs alone disturbed 
the midnight silence. 

" Quick — we have no time to lose — he is hidden in the underground 
passage — let us force the door, before the people of the valley come to his 
rescue !" 

Thus speaking, the Tory leader, whose face was hidden beneath the folds 
of crape, pointed with liis sword towards a heavy billet of wood, which 
laid on the hard clay of the cellar floor. 

Four stalwart Tories seize ii in their muscular grasp ; they stand pre- 
pared to dash the door from its hinges. 

" One good blow and the Spy is ours !" shouts the Tory leader, with 
an oath. 

" And the guineas — don't forget the guineas, and the girl I" growled the 
red-faced British Sergeant. 

The torch-light fell over their faces, frenzied by intoxication and rage, 
over their forms, clad in plain farmer's costume, with a belt across every 
chest, a powder horn by each side. 

And at this moment, as they stand ready to dash the door into fragments, 
on the other side stands Mary, the peasant girl, her round white arm sup- 
plying the place of bar and fastening. Yes, with the light in her extended 
right arm, she gazes after the retreating form of her father, while her left 
arm is placed through the staples, in place of the bar. 

One blow, and the maiden's arm will be rent in fragments, even to '' 
shoulder, one blow, and over her crushed and trampled body, will b. 
the pathway of the ravager and robber ! 

" Heaven, pity me ! My father has not suflicient strength to roll 
rock from the mouth of tlie passage ! I hear tlieir voices — their threats- - 



I 



THE SON OF THE HUNTER-SPY. 355 

they prepare to force the door, but I will foil them even yet ! They shall 
not pass to my father's heart, save over the dead body of his child !" 

Meanvchile, on the opposite side of the door, the four ruffians stood ready 
with the billet of oak, in their iron grasp. 

" Now !" shouted the Tory Captain, " one good blow, and it is done !" 

They swayed the log slowly to and fro — it moved forward,— all tlie im- 
pulse of their iron sinews concentrated in the effort— when a heavy body 
fell from the narrow window of the cellar and beat the billet to the ground. 

The curse of the Tory leader echoed through the vault. 

In a moment, ere they could raise a hand, up from the darkness there 
rose the form of a giant negro, bared to the waist, his broad chest heaving, 
while his eyes rolled wildly in his inky face. 

" Black Sampson !" growled tlie Tory. " Stand aside charcoal, or I'll 
cut you down !" 

" Look heah !" shouted the Negro, confronting the armed Tories with 
his bared arms and breast, while his teeth grated convulsively. " Stan' off 
— I say s-t-a-n' off! Ole Massa Maylan' kind to Sampson — gib him bread 
■when he hungry — med'cin' when he sick ! Now you gwain to hurt de ole 
man ? I 'spose not, while Sampson hab an arm ! Slan' oft' — I'm dang*- 
rous !" 

And the black Hercules towered aloft, his sinews writhing, his teeth 
clenched, his features — moulded with the aquiline contour of the Ashantee 
race — quivering with rage. 

There was a struggle — the gleam of arms — shouts and curses — yet still 
the Negro beat them back — dashing their swords aside with his weaponless 
hands. 

Still, true to that wild fidelity — which burned in his savage heart like a 
gleam from Heaven — he shouted his hoarse war-cry. 

" De ole man kind to Sampson ! 'Spose you hurt him ? You mus' kill 
dis nigga fust !" 

Again he beat them back — but at last, by a simultaneous effort they bore 
him to the earth. 

At the same moment, the door flew open, and a shriek quivered through 
the cellar. 

" Saved — my father — saved !" 

There, beneath the glare of the torches, lay the form of the fainting girl 
— her bosom pulseless, her face as white as death. 

" This way !" cried the Tory Captain. " We will secure the Spy first, 
and then his daughter!" 

They rushed after their leader — their shouts and cries, echoed far along 
the passage. 

In another moment, a light shone over the cellar and a man of some 
twenty-six years, attired in the brown dress of a farmer, with blue eyes and 
flaxen hair, advanced toward the unconscious girl. 



356 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

" Here's a pnrly business !" he exclaimed, with a strong German accent 
— " De nigga kill, and Folly half dead !" 

And llius speaking, honest Gotleib Hoff knelt before the unconscious 
girl. 

On the green slope, whirh arose from the school-master's home, toward 
the woods, on the hill-iop stood the strange being whom we have known as 
the son of the Hunter-Spy, and the Pretended Quaker — Gilbert Gates. 

Above him arched the universe of slars — around him, slumbered the 
peaceful valley of Urandywiue — within him, burned the tortures of a lost 
soul. 

In his talon-like fingers he crushed a much-worn paper ; it had been 
pinned to tlie dead man's breast some twenty years ago. 

There were cold drops of sweat upon his brow ; he trembled from his 
heart to his linger ends. 

"Tliey are on his track, the dupes, the tools of my vengeance! Mine — 
mine — father and daughter, both mine ! For him a death of horror — for 
her a life of shame ! Halt ! 1 hear their shouts — they pursue him to the 
death I" 

. As he spoke, a long column of light was flung over the green sward 
where he stood, as if from the bosom of the earth. A huge rock was rolled 
from the mouth of the mound, and the shouts and yells of the rufiian band 
swelled on the air. 

A figure sprang from the shelter of the mound — a weak and aged man— 
his attire covered with earth, and torn in fragments — his blue eyes, wander- 
ing in their glance, his grey hairs tossing to the impulse of the night breeze. 

As he sprung out upon the sod, he muttered the name of God : 

" It is hard for an old man like me to be hunted to death like a mad dog ! 
Let me see, which way shall I turn ? I must take to the woods !" 

" Nay, friend Mayland, nay," said a mild and conciliating voice : " Thee 
has never trusted in me, yet now will I save thy life. Not to the woods, 
for the bloodhounds are too near ; in truth they are. But to the hay-stack ! 
Behold this cavity, which I have made to conceal thee, amid this pile of 
bay !" 

" Gilbert Gates !" cried the old man, starting back. " I trust you not — 
there is Traitor written on your face !" 

" Hark ! Does thee hear the shouts of thee pursuers ? ' Death, death 
to Mayland the Spy !' Will thee trust to them ?" 

" To the hay -stack be it, then I" cried the bewildered old man : " Bless 
me, what does this mean '. A hole hollowed out in the centre of the slack !" 

" I'll tell thee when thou art saved !" cried Gilbert, with his peculiar 
smile. " In. friend Mayland, in ! They will never suspect thee hiding- 
place — I will conceal it with this loose hay !" 

In a moment Jacob Mayland disappeared, while Gilbert Gates stood alone 
in the centre of the sward. 



THE SON OF THE HUNTER-SPY. 357 

The liay-stack, rouiul, compact and uniform in appearance, rose darkly 
in tiie dim light of the stars. Within its centre, cramped, confined, scarce 
able to breathe, crouched Jacob Mayland, the one-armed schoolmaster. 

A shout from the mound, a Jlash of light, and some twenty forms leap 
one by one, from the mouth of the passage. 

"Ila! Gilbert Gates !" shouted the Tory leader — "which way went 
they spy ?" 

"To the woo(i» ! to the woods'." cried Gilbert, as his sharp features 
glowed in tlie light of twenty torches. 

" Look, you smooth-speech !" cried the huge British Sergeant, slumbling 
forward — "I don't trust you. Your broad-brimmed hat don't hide your 
villainous face. By , I believe you've helped (his 8[iy to escape !" 

A hoarse murmur arose froin the bravoes, who with ominous looks, came 
grouping round the False Quaker. 

" Now, friend Hamsdrotf', do not get into a passion," said Gilbert, in his 
mildest tones — " or if thee does get into a passion, I beseech — ' his face 
assumed an expression which, in its minified mildness and hatred, ciiilled 
even the drunken Sergeant to the heart — " do not, I beseecli thee, firt the, 
■poor mans haij-slaclc!" 

" Ila, ha ! Won't I though ?'' shouted the Sergeant. " The old fox 
has escaped, but we'll burn his nest !" 

He seized a torch and dashed it along the hay. 

"Fire the hay-stack, my boys!" shouted the tory leader: "Fire the 
hay-stack, every man of you I Burn the relicl out of house and home !" 

As you look, twelve of the band rush forward and encircle the hay-stack 
with a belt of flame. Another moment — a sudden breeze from the forest — 
the hay-stack glows from the sward a mass of living (lame. 

The lire whizzed, and crackled, and hissed, winding around the cone of 
hay, and shooting in one long column, into the midnight sky. Abroad over 
the meadow, abroad over the forest, crimsoning each leaf with a blood-red 
glow, high and higher, fierce and madder, it whirled and rose, that column 
of fiame. 

Now the Tories, half in rage and half in drunken joy, mingled hand in 
hand, and danced around the burning pile. 

" Hurrah for King George !" shouted the Sergeant, leaping from the 
ground. " Death to all Rebels !" 

" So perish all rebels !" echoed the Tories. 

And higher and higher rose the flame. 

Up to the heavens, paling the stars with its burning red — over the green 
of the meadows — down upon the waters of the Brartdywine — up the hill- 
side — along the woods, it rose, that merry flame ! • 

As in the blaze of noonday, lay the level sward, the grey stone house of 
the schoolmaster, the frame barn with its fences and outhouses — while 
around the burning pile, merrier and gayer danced the soldiers, flinging iheit 

43 



358 THE BATTLE OF T3RANDYWINE. 

swords in the blood-red light, and sending the name of the Good King 
George to the skies ! 

Retired in the backirroiind, some few yards from the burnintj stack, his 
arms folded on Ins breast, liis head turned to one side, stood Gilbert Gates, 
the Sou of the Ilunter-Spy. A smile on his pinched lips, a cold gleam in 
his eye. 

" Fire the Iiouse !" shouted the Tory leader. 

'riicyturiiod to fire the house, but a low, moaning •und broke on the 
air — it raused the troopers, brutal as they were, to start with horror. The 
leader of the Tories wheeled suddenly round bending his head to catch the 
slightest whisper ; the face of the Sergeant grew white as his sword 
belt. 

That low, moaning sound swelled to a sliriek — a shriek that curdled their 
blood. It came from the bosom of the burning hay-stack — along the breeze 
it yelled, and died away. Another shriek and another ! Three sounds 
more horrible never broke on the ears of man. In a moment all was still 
as death — the hay-stack crasiied down with a deadened sound. Nothing 
was left but a pile of smouldering embers. All was still as death, but a dim 
object moved amid the last remains of the burning hay — moved, struggled, 
and was still. 

For the last time, the (lame glared into the midnight sk)'. 

Disclosed by that red glare, stood Gilbert Gates, perusing the crushed 
paper wbieh he grasped in his talon-fingers. 

Tiiese are the words which he read by the glare of the hay-stack, words 
■written in a cramped hand — perhaps in blood — and dated more than twenty 
years before this, September day in 1777 ; 

" Isaac Gates — a Truilor and Sp)/ — Iluiig by three soldiers of his 
lilajesly's Army. J.\cob. Mavland." 

" He died alone in the wild woods — and I — his son, and his avenger!" 

With these words, the son of the Hunter-Spy passed behind the barn, 
and was lost to sight. 

And from the accursed pile of death fled the soldiers, spurring their horses 
to their utmost speed — with the fear and horror of coward guilt they fled — 
while far over the plain, far over the valley, came the men of Brandywine, 
roused from their sleep by the burning hay-stack. Yes, from the hill-top 
and valley they came, as the last embers of the fire were yet glowing on 
the green swartl. 

And two figures emerged from the door of the schoolmaster's house, the 
form of a stout and muscular man, and the form of a trembling maiden. 

" Godieb, it seems like a dream," said the maiden. " The flight of my 
father, ths chase in the passage — the swoon ! Thank God, my father has 
escaped ! But what means this sudden stillness — yon flickering fire ?'' 

Tliey reached the burning embers on the hiU-side and stood for a moment 
gazing upon the scene. 



THE SON OF THE HUNTER-SPY. 359 

A mass of burning liay, a pile of ashes, the wreck of some fplinlered 
boards, were all that remained to tell of the location of the hny-stack. 

" What is that dark thing in the fire ?" exclaimed Mary Maylaiid — 
" Quick, Gotlieb — hold the light nearer — it seems lo move, to stir !" 

Gotlieb held the light over the darkened mass. Here let me pause for a 
single moment. 

You may charge me with painting horrors that never existed. 

And yet there ^ not a hill or a valley in any one of the old Thirteen 
States unstained with the blood of peaceful men, shed by the hirelings of 
King George. 

Not only on the soil of Brandy wine, but in a quiet home of Germantown, 
was, a deed similar to the one in question, commitled by American Tories 
and their British brethren. 

An old man burned to death in cold blood by the soldiers of King George : 
it is horrible, but having occurred in the course of that beautiful game of 
War, which Kings and Tyrants have played for some four thousand years ; 
let "us write it down, aye, in its darkest and bloodiest details, so that the 
children of our day may know the features of Civil War. 

War has been painted too long as a pretty thing, spangled with buttons, 
fluttering with ribbons, waving with plumes. 

Let us learn to look upon it as it is ; a horrible bandit, reeking with the 
blood of the innocent, the knife of murder in his hand, the fire of carnage 
in his eye. 

The war which Washington waged, was not war, in the proper sense of 
the term. It was only the defence of ones hearlhsidc against the robber 
and murderer. 

But of all the hideous murders which have been done, for two thousand 
years, the war waged by the British King, against the American People, 
was the foulest, the dastardliest, the bloodiest. 

It was a massacre of eight years, beginning to kill at Bunker Hill, and 
ending its work of butchery, only when it was crushed at Yorktown. 

Let no mawkish sympathy for Great Britain shake this truth from our 
souls. The Englishman we do not hate; he is the countryman of Shaks- 
peare and Milton, he is our brother. 

But it will take a thousand years of good deeds to wash from the History 
of England, the horrid and merciless butcheries which she perpetrated in 
the Eight Years' War. 

To forgive these crimes is our duty, but to forget them — 

Can a child forget the wretch who butchered his mother ? 

Why, at the thought, the dead of our battlefields bleed again— aye, from 
the shades of Mount Vernon, armed for the combat, starts the solemn ghost 
of Washington ! 

Let us follow this tragedy to the end, and at the same time, remember — it 
is only one among a thousand. 



300 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYVVINE. 

Gotlieb held tiie light over the darkened mass. 

Yes, while the men of Brandywine formed a circle about the scene, 
grouping around the form of the farmer and the maiden, the light streamed 
over tliat hideous object aiuong the embers. 

Mary, the daughter advanced, her face glowing mildly in the light, ad- 
vanced and — looked — 

— There are some sights which it is blasphemy to paiut, and this is one 
of them ! — 

Some Angel of Mercy, at the sight, took from her sense and consciousness. 
She fell : her white iiaiids outstretched, touched the mangled form of Wr 
father. 

Tlien one groan heaving from an hundred hearts, swelled ou the air. 

A dark fornj came rushing to the scene ; breasting the spectators aside, 
Sampson, the Giant Negro stood there, gazing upon the horrid mass at 
his feet. 

And he knelt there, and his lips moved, and nuirmured a vow — not in 
English — but in iiis wild Ashantee tongue. A heathen, with but an im- 
perfect notion of the Ciiristian Truth, dragged from his native land into 
slavery when but a child, the son of a savage king, he murmured above 
the old man's skeleton his horrible vow, devoting the murderers to his- 
Moloch God. 

How that vow was kept let the records of Brandy wine witness ! 

At the moment while stout Gotlieb, appalled and stricken into stone, stood 
holding the light over the dead — as Mary, pale and beautiful, lay beside 
that which was her father, only an hour ago — as the huge negro bent above 
the witness of murder, his sinews quivering, lips clenched and eyes glaring, 
as he took the vow — at this moment, while the spectators stood alternately 
melted into tears and frozen into the dead apathy of horror. • 

There came a peaceful man, gliding silently through the crowd, his bosom 
trembling with deep compassion, his eyes wet with tears. 

" Ah, this is a terrible thing !" said a tremulous voice — " In truth is it !" 

And the Son of the Hunter-Spy stood gazing on the miserable remains 
of his Father's E.vecutioner. 

XVII— DLACK SAMPSON. 

How beautiful in yonder graveyard, the wild flowers bloom, above the 
Mother's grave ! 

Fond hopes are buried here, yes, betfeath the rank grass and the dark 
mould, a true heart that once throbbed with the pulsations of that passion 
which is most like Heaven — a iNIother's Love — moulders into dust. 

And yet from the very rankness of the mould, that encloses the Mother's 
form, from the very eyes and skull of Death, fair flowers bloom beautifully 
into light, and with their fragrance sanctify the graveyard air. 



BLACK SAMPSON. 361 

So from the very blood and horror of the battle-field, many a tender 
Tirtue is born, yes, from the carnajre which floods the green meadow with 
the life-current of a thousand hearts, many a god-like heroism springs 
gloriously into life. 

War is the parent of many virtues. Not Invading War, which attracts 
ten thousand crimes with its blood-red sword, and fills the land with the 
dead bodies of its children. No! Invading War is the Vidture of the 
Andes, gorgeous in its plumage, bloody and merciless in its hatred, loath- 
some in its appetite. It feeds only on the bodies of the dead. 

But War for Home, and for Home's holiest altar, honest war waged with 
a sword, that is taken from its resting place above the poor man's heartli, 
and sanctified with the tears of iiis wife. War that is fought beneath a 
clear sky, on a native soil, witli the eyes of angels watching all the while ; 
this is a holy thing in the siglit of Heaven. 

From such a war, fought on the Continent of America, during the long 
course of Eight years, and extending its battle-field from the rock of Que- 
bec to the meadows of Savannah, a thousand unknown virtues rushed into 
birth. 

■ I speak not now, of the sublime virtue of Washington, the heroism of La 
Fayette, the wild energy of Anthony Wayne. No ! The hero whose 
savao-e virtue is yet recorded in every blade of grass, that waves above the 
field of Brandywine, was a poor man. A very humble man who had toiled 
from dawn until dusk, with the axe or spade. A rude man withal, who 
made his home in a miserable hut, yet still a Hero ! 

The virtue that he cherished was a savage virtue, meaning in plain words, 
Fidelity unto Death and after Death, yet still a virtue. 

Start not when I tell you, that this hero was— a Negro ! His hair 
crisped into wool, his skin blackened to the hue of ink, by the fiery sun of- 
his clime and race, his hands harsh and bony with iron toil. 

He was a Negro and yet a Hero ! 

Do not mistake me. I am no factionist, vowed to the madness of treason, 
under the sounding name of— Humanity. I have no sympath)' — no scorn 

nothing but pity for those miserably deluded men, who in order to free 

the African race, would lay unholy hands upon the American Union. 

That American Union is a holy thing to me. It was baptized some 
seventy years ago, in a river of sacred blood. For that Union thousands 
of brave men left their homes, their wives, all that man holds dear in order 
to die, amid ice and snows, the shock of battles, tlie dishonor of gihbets. 
No one can count the tears, the prayers, the lives, tiiat have sanctified lliis 
American Union, making it an eternal bond of brotherhood for innumerable 
millions, an altar forever sacred to the Rights of Man. For seventy years 
and more, tiic Smile of God has beamed upon it. The man that for any 
pretence, would lay a finger upon one of its pillars, not only blasphemes 
the memory of the dead, but invokes upon his name the Curse of all ages 



362 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

yet (o come. 1 care not how plausible his argument, how swelling his 
sounding periods, how profuse his ' sympalhy for svffering humanity' 
that man is a Traitor to the soil that bore iiim, a Traitor to the mother 
whose breast gave him noiirishuienl, a Traitor to the Dead, whose very 
graves abhor the pollution of his footsteps. 

All that sucli a person can plead in extenuation, is the miserable excuse 
of cowardice combined with fjlly. Arnold was a hero, a man of genius, 
although a Traitor. The man who would taint with one unhallowed word 
the sanctity of the Union, stands arrayed in the leprosy of Arnold's 
Treason, without one redeeming ray of his heroism, one spark of his 
genius. 

For the American Union is to Political Freedom, what the Bible is to 
Religious Hope. There may be ditTerences of opinion in relation to the 
sacred volume, various creeds may spring from misconstruction of its pages, 
defects of translation may mar the sublimesl of its beauties. 

AVould you therefore blot the Bible from the earth ? Give us a better, a 
holier book, before you take this from our homes and hearts ! 

So the American Union may be the object of honest difTcrences of opin- 
ion ; it may be liable to misinterpretation, or be darkened by the smoke of 
conflicting creeds ; yes, it may shelter black slavery in the south, and white 
slavery in the north. 

Would you therefore destroy it ? Give us a belter, a holier Union, be- 
fore you sweep this into chaos ! 

With this protest against every illegitimate creation of a feverish philan- 
throphy, whether it takes the shape of alTcction for the suffering African, or 
— like the valorous bull who contended with the steam engine — pitches with 
head down, eyes closed, horns erect, against the Happiness of Millions, let 
me turn to my hero. A negro Hero, with hair like wool, skin as black 
as ink. 

Against the porch of the murdered Schoolmaster's home, just before the 
break of day, on the Eleventh of September, 1777, there leaned the figure 
of a tall and muscular man. 

You can see him yonder through the dimness of the day-break hour, rest- 
ing with bent arms against the railing of the porch^ His attire is very 
simple ; rough coat and trowscrs of plain homespun, yet through their loose 
folds, you call discern the outlines of a noble, yes, magnificent form. 

It is not his form however, with its breadth of chest, its sinewy arms, its 
towering height, or Herculean outline of iron strength, that arrests your 
attention. 

His head placed erect upon his shoulders, by a firm Ixild nock. His fire 
with its unmistakable clearness of outline. The brow full and prominent, 
the nose aquiline with slight and tremulous nostrils, the lips not remarkable 



BLACK SAMPSON. 363 

for thickness, set together with a firm pressure, the chin square and bold, 
the cheek-bones high and anguhir. 

And yet he is a Negro, and yet he lias been a slave ! 

A Negro, without the peculiar conformation, which marks whole tribes 
of his race. Neither thick lips, (lat nose, receding chin or forehead, are 
his. He stands in the dimness of this hour, a type of the war-like Ashan- 
tee race, whose forms remind you at once of Apollo and Hercules, hewn 
from a solid mass of anthracite— black in hue yet bold in oudine, vigorous in 
the proportions of each manly limb. 

Black Sampson — so they called liim — stood leaning against the porch of 
his murdered master's home, while around him, certain while objects arose 
prominently in the dim air, and a vague murmur swelled above the meadow 
of the Brandywine. 

These white objects were the tents of the Continential Encampment, 
stretching over the valley afar. That murmur was the omen of a terrible 
event. It meant that brave men, with stout hearts in their bosoms, were 
sharpening their swords, examining their rifles, and eating their last meal 
before the balde. 

But Sampson looked not upon the white tents, nor heard the mumiur. 
Nor did he gaze upon a space of earth, some few paces up the hill-side, 
where a circle had been described on the soft sward, by the action of fire. 

There, the night before last, his friend, his master, the veteran who had 
served with Washington in Braddock's war, had been — burned to death. 

Nor did the eye of Black Sampson, rest upon a rude hut, which you can 
see, down the meadow yonder, half way between llie stream, and the foot 
of the hill. That was Black Sampson's home — there, when sick and at 
death's door, he had been fed by the old schoolmaster, and there, his dreams 
of Pagan Superstition had been broken by the prayers of the schoolmaster's 
child. 

Sampson's thoughts were neither with the murdered man and his blue- 
eyed daughter, nor with the army whose murmur swelled around. 

No ! Gathering his coarse garb, to his breast, he folded his arms, and 
talked to himself. 

Now you will understand me, this Negro, could not speak ten clear 
words of our English tongue. He could not master the-harsh elements of 
our northern language. But when he thought, it was in the musical sylla- 
bles of his native Ashantee: shall we translate his thoughts into English? 

" Years — years — O, years of horrible torUire, how ye glide away ! 
Back into my native land again — the land of the desert and the sun, the 
land of the Lion and the Tiger, — back once more into my father's kraal! 
Yonder it stands among those trees, with the large green leaves, and many 
colored birds upon each bough ! Yonder by the deep river, whose waves 
are white with lillies — yonder beneath the shadow of the palm, yonder 
with its roof, evergreen with vines ! 



304 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

" And my Aiilier is here ! Yes, witli his people and his children round 
liim, he sits hiforc his palace pate, gold hracelels on )iis wrisis, the iron 
spc;ir in his hand, a cliain of diamonds and pearls about his neck. But 
Ka-Loloo, the king of the Ashantee has grown old ; he mourns for his son 
— his son, who was stolen away, long years — ah, long, long years ago hy 
the pale, lace ! Look ! The old man weeps — he loved that son — see ! the 
lays of the setting sun lifjlit up his aged hrow — he weeps ! His people in 
vain atlempt to comfort him. " My son, my son," he cries, " wlio shall 
lead the Ashantees to battle, when I am gathered to the Kroalof thedead ?" 
So speaks Ka-Loloo king of the Ashantees, sitting with his people round 
him at his palace gate !" 

—Laugh if you please, at these strange memories of the Negro, but I assure 
you, there were tears in the rude fellows eyes, even as he stood there lean- 
ing against the porch. 

For his Father was a King — he was the Prince of three thousand war- 
riors — he, whose native name was now lost in the cognomen, Black 
Sampson — had been sold from his home into slavery. 

Tiie People of the valley of Brandywine knew but little about him. 
About live j-ears ago, he had appeared in the valley, a miserable skeleton, 
covered from head to foot with scars. It was supposed that he was a slave 
from the far south. No one asked his history, but the old veteran, even 
.Tacob INIayland, gave him a home. Therefore, Black Sampson clung to 
the memory of his murdered master with all his soul. 

The day began to dawn ; light clouds floating over the eastern horizon, 
saw the sun approach, and caught his golden smile upon their snowy 
breasts. 

It was at this hour, that Black Sampson, leaning against the porch of the 
murdered man's home, beheld a strange figure come slowly over the sward, 
toward him. 

Was it a Ghost ? So strangely beautiful, with those white feel, pressing 
the soft grass, that flowing brown hair sweeping over the bared arms ? 

At a second glance, he recognized the daughter of the schoolmaster, warm 
and lovable and bewitching Mary IMayland, whom Godicb HolT, the rough 
farmer loved with all his heart. 

Warm and lovable and bewitching no longer ! For she came with her 
blue eves fixed and glassy — she came, clad in her night dress as a shroud 
— she came, the image of a Woman, whose dearest hope has all at once 
been wrecked, whose life has suddenly been transformed from a garden of 
virgin hopes, into a desert of blasted ashes. 

Sampson was a Negro — a rude man, xvho had an imperfect idea of the 
Blessed Saviour, mingling His Religion with tlie dreams of Pagan supersti- 
tion — and yet, as he beheld this pale girl come slowly toward him, with 
her white arms folded over her almost pulseless bosom, he, the black man, 
shuddered. 



I 



BLACK SAMPSON. 305 

Still the young woman came on, and stood before him — a miserable wreck 
— telling ill her mad way, the story of her unutterable wrong. She did 
not see Sampson, for her glassy eyes looked on the vacant air, but still she 
told her story, making the honest negro's blood run cold in his veins. 

— The niglit before she had been hired from her home, and . The 

story cannot be told. All that we can know is, that she stands before us, in 
the light of the breaking day, a mad and ruined girl. In her ravings — oh, 
that name is too harsh ! In her mild, deep voice, she told the slory of her 
wrong, and murmured the name of Gilbert Gates, and the name of a British 
officer. 

You can see Sampson start forward, galber her gently in his rude arms, 
and place her quiedy on the seat of the porch. 

" Dis am berry bad, Missa Polly — " he said, and you will remember that 
he spoke very uncouth English — " Enuf to break a nigga's heart ! And 
dey took you from ycr home, and " 

The negro did not utter another word, for he saw the slout form of Got- 
lieb HolT coming briskly over the sod, a rifle on his shoulder, an oaken sprig 
in the band of his hat. Godieb whistled gaily as he came, his light curling 
hair waving about his ruddy face. 

He did not dream of the agony in store for him. 

And while he came, the poor girl sat on tlie porch of her Home, folding 
her white arms over her bosom, and muttering in that low deep voice, the 
story of her wrong. 

The negro Black Sampson, could not endure the sight. Even as Godieb 
came gaily on, the black man bounded from the porch, and hastened toward 
yonder barn. 

If he — the negro — turned away from the agony of this meeting between 
the Plighted Husband and his Ruined Bride, shall we take hearts of stone 
to our bosoms, and gaze upon the horror of that interview ? 

Black Sampson approached the barn whose walls of logs you see piled 
up yonder, on the side of the hill. 

He opened a narrow door and called for his dog. The dog bounded 

forth, a noble animal, in shape something like the kingly dogs of St. 

Bernard, yet white as the driven snow. He came with fierce eyes and 

formidable teeth, ears and head erect, and crouched low at his master's 

feet. 

Tben Sampson entered the barn, and in a moment appeared, holding a 

scvthe in his right arm. He wound one arm around the handle, and with 

the fingers of his other hand, tested the sharpness of the edge. 

Then a low, deep, yet unnatural chuckle passed the African's lips. 

" Look hcab, Debbil — " that was tlie name of his dog — " Hah, yah ! 
Sampson am gwain a-mowin' dis day !" 

The dog darted up, as with mingled rage and joy. 

You will admit that Sampson's movements are peculiar. In order to . 

44 



366 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

understanJ this strange magnetic sympathy between the master and the dog, 
let us follow Sampson's steps into tlie barn. 

He tlinirs open the large door, and by the dim morning light you behold 
a strange object in the centre of the threshing floor among heaps of straw. 

Is it a man, or an image ? 

It is a British uniform, stufled with straw and glittering with epaulettes 
of gold. There is a gay cliapeau placed on the shoulders of the figure, 
military boots upon its legs. 

The moment that ' Dcbbil' beholds it, he howls with ungovernable rage, 
displays his teeth, and shoots lire from his eyes. 

Hut Sampson holds liim by the collar, talking merrily to him all the 
vliile — 

" Look heah Dobbil, wc am gwain a-mowin' dis day ! De ye know 
what we gwain to mow I I tells ye. l)e night afore last, de dam British, 

dey burn your Massa alive d'ye hear dal, ye stupid Debbil ? Dis berry 

hour* dey abuse your young .Missus — you understand me Debbd ? Dat's 
de reason we am gwain a-mowiu' ! Dal is ! An' whent'bber ye see any- 
ting like dat Debbil — " pointing to llie figure — " Den at 'em trote, and lap 
um blood !" 

lie loosed the collar of the Dog and suffered him to go. 
— You hear a deep howl, you see the dog spring forward. Look ! His 
teeth are fixed in the throat of the figure ; he tears it, drags it, crushes it in 
his rage, while Black Sampson stands laughing by. 

Laughing a low, deep laugli, that has something else than mirth in its tone. 

" Dai's de way we am gwain a-mowiu' dis d'ay !" 

He turned from the barn followed by the spotless dog. He stood amid 
the cinders of the burned haystack, where his master had died in bitter 
agony the night before last. 

Then, while the armies were mustering for the conflict, while over the 
valley of the Brandywino the Continentals formed in columns, their starry- 
banner waving overhead, while on yonder porch Godieb listens to the story 
of the veteran's child, here, on this circle of withered grass, Black Sampson 
prepared for batde. 

The manner of his preparation was singular. 

The sun came on — the gleam of British arms shine on the opposite hills 
— the battle was about to commence its Liturgy of yells and groans, yet 
still Sampson stood there, in the centre of the blasted circle. 

On the very spot where the veteran's bones had laid, he stood. 

fluttering again that terrible oath of vengeance to his Moloch God, he 
first stripped from his form his coal of coarse homespun. Then, with his 
broad, black chest glittering in the sunlight, he wound his right arm around 
the handle of his scythe. 

He I'id the other hand upon the head of his dog. His eye gleamed with 
deadly light. 



BLACK SAMPSON. ^67 

Thus, scylhc in hand, his dog by his side, his form, in all its herculean 
proportion, bared to the waist, Black Sampson stood prepared for batde. 

Look yonder over the valley ! Dehold that sweep of level meadow, that 
rippling stream of water. On these eastern hills, you see the men of Mad 
Anthony Wayne, ranged in battle-order. Yonder, from the western woods, 
the gleam of Kniphausen's arms, shoots gaily over the leaves. 

Suddenly there is a sound like thunder,, then wiiite columns of smoke, 
then a noise of trampling hoofs. 

Black Sampson hears that tluinder and quivers from head to foot. He 
sees the white smoke, and lifts hi.s scythe. The trampling hoofs he hears, 
and speaks to his dog — " Debbil, dis day we am gwain a-mowin' !" 

But then, through the clamor of batUe, there comes a long and ringing 
cry. It is the batde-shout of Anthony Wayne. 

Black Sampson hears it, darts forward, and with his dog by his side, 
rushes into the folds of the battle-smoke. 

You see him yonder, far down the valley, you see him yonder, in the 
midst of the stream ; now he is gone among the clouds, now he comes forth 
again, now the whirlpool of battle shuts him in. Still the white dog is by 
his side, still that scythe gleams aloft. Does it fall ? 

At last, yonder on the hanks of the Brandy wine, where a gush of sunlight 
pours through the battle-clouds, you see Black Sampson stand. A strange 
change has passed over himself, his scythe, his dog. All have changed 
color. The color they wear is a fiery red — look ! You can see it drip 
from the scytlie, crimson Sampson's chest and arms, and stain with gory 
patches, the white fur of his dog. 

And the word that Sampson said, as he patted his noble dog, was some- 
thing like this : 

" Dat counts one for Massa !" 

Had the scythe fallen ? Had the dog hunted his game ? 

Through the entire batde of Brandywine, which began at break of day, 
and spent its last shot when the night set in, and the stars came smiling out 
upon the scene of murder, that Black Hercules was seen, companioned by 
his white dog, the sharp scythe flashing in dazzling circles above his head. 

On the plain or meadow, extending in a lake of verdure where the battle 
begun ; four miles away in the graveyard of the Quaker Meeting house, 
where thousands of contending foemen, fought until the sod was slippery 
■with blood ; at noon, at night, always rushing forward that Negro was seen, 
armed only with a sharp scythe, his only comrade a white dog, spotted 
with flakes of blood. 

And the war-cry that he ever shouted, was in his rude way — 

" Dat counts one for Massa, Debbil !" 

Whenever he said this, the dog howled, and there was another mangled 
corse upon the ground. 



368 Tin: BATTLE OF BRANDYVVINE. 

The British soldiers saw liiin come — his broad black chest gleaming ia 
the sun — his strange weapon glittering overhead — liis while dog yelling by 
his siiie, and as they looked they felt their hearts grow cold, and turned 
from his path witli fear. Yes fear, for with a superstition not unnatural, 
tlicy thought they liuheld, not a warrior armed for the fight, but a Demon, 
created by the horror of battle, rushing on with the fiend-animal by his 
side. 

Many a British tliroat that had been fondly pressed by the hands of 
mother, wife, or sister, that day felt the teeth of the white dog ! Many a 
British eye that had gazed undismayed into the muzzle of American can- 
non, quailed with involuntory cowardice at the sight of that circling scythe. 
Many a Hritisii lieart tliat had often beat with mad pulsations, in tiie hour 
when American homes had been desolated, American fathers murdered, 
American mothers outraged, that day lay cold in the bosom which was 
pressed by the foot of Black Sampson, the Prince of the Asiiantee. 

Do not impute to me a morbid appetite for scenes of blood. I might 
pourtray to you in all their horrors, tlie several deaths of the murderers of 
Jacob Mayland, the veteran of Braddock's war. How this one was hurled 
from his horse by the wliite dog, while tiie scythe of Sampson performed 
its terrible ollicc. How another, pursuing the Americans at tlie head of 
his men, uttered the shout of victory, and then heard the howl of the dog 
and died. How a third gentleman, while in the act of listening to my Lord 
Cornwallis, (who always went out to murder in clean rulUes and a wig, 
perfumed with J\/arechale powder,) was startled by the apparition of a 
giant negro, a whirling scytlie, a white dog crimsoned with blood, and how 
■when he saw this apparition a moment only, he never saw or felt anything 
more. 

But I will not do it. My onlj- object is to impress upon your minds, 
my friends — for sitting alone in my room, wiiii but this pen in my hand, I 
can talk to you all ; you, the half-a-million reailers of this page and call yoa 
frienih — the idea of Black Sampson's conduct, his religion, his ruling 
motive. 

It was this : Tlie old man Mayland and his daughter, had been very 
kind to him. To them in his rude negro heart, he had sworn eternal 
fidelity. In his rude African religion, to revenge the death of a friend, 
was not only a dttl;/, but a solemn hijuneliun from the lips of the dead. 

Therefore arming himself but with a scythe, he called his dog, and went 
out to hunt Englishmen, as he had often hunted wild beasts, 

I'ass we then the carnage of that fearful day. 

It was in the calm of twilight, when that sweet valley of Brandywine 
looks as lovely as a young bride, trembling on the threshold of the Bridal 
Chamber — a blushing, joyous, solemn thing, hall'-light, half-shadow — that a 
rude figure stumbled into a room, where a dead woman lay. 



BLACK SAMPSON. ggg 

It was ill a Iiouse near Dilwortli corner, one or two miles from the bat- 
lle-fieki of the meeliiifj house. 

A quiet chamber filled with silent people, with hushed breath and deeply- 
saddened faces, and the softened glow of a glorious sunset pouring through 
tlie closed curtains of yonder window. 

Those people gathered round a bed, whose snow-white "coverlet cauglit a 
flush of gold from the setting sun. Stout men were in that crowd, men 
who had done brave woric in that day's battle, and tender girls who were 
looking forward with hope to a future life of calm, home-born joys, and 
aged matrons, who had counted the years of their lives by the burial of dear 
friends. These all were there. 

And there at the foot of the bed, stood a man ia the dress of a 'farmer, his 
frank honest face, stained with blood, his curling hair curling no longer, but 
stitTened with clotted gore. He had been in battle, Godieb Ilofl" striving 
earnestly to do some justice on these British spoilers, and now at the even- 
ing hour — after scenes that I may picture at some future time — came to 
look upon the burden of that bed. 

It was no wonder that honest Godieb muttered certain mad sentences, in 
broken English, as he gazed upon this sight. 

For believe me had you been there, you would have felt your senses 
gliding from you at that vision. It was indeed, a pitiful sight. 

Slie looked so beautiful as she lay there upon the bed. The hands that 
were gently clasped, and the bosom that had heaved its last throb, and the 

closed eyelids that were never to open more, and you see they wept 

there, all of them, for she looked so sadly beautiful as she lay dead, even 
Mary sweet gende lovable Mary, with the waving brown hair and the 
laughing blue eyes. 

She was dead now. About the hour of noon wlien the batde raged most 
horribly, the last cliord of her brain snapt, and on the altar of her outraged 
life the last tire went out. She was dead, and O, she wore the saddest, 
sweetest smile about her young face as she lay there, that you ever saw. 

That was what made them weep. To have looked stift' and cold and 
dismal, would have seemed more like Death, but to smile thus upon them 
all, when her honor, her reason, her life, had all in one hour been trampled 
into nothingness, to smile thus peacefully and forgivingly as she lay dead, 
in her simple night-dress — ah ! It cut every heart with a sudden sharp 
pain, and made the eyes overflow with bitter tears. 

I have said that a rude figure stumbled into a room, where a dead 
woman lay. 

Yes, in the very moment when the last ray of the sun — that never more 
should rise upon the dead girl — was kissing her closed lids as if m pity, 
there came a rude figure, breasting his way through the spectators. 

Black and grim — almost horrible to look upon — bleeding from many 
wounds, the scythe in his hand, Sampson stood there. He looked long and 



370 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWIXE. 

fixedly upon the dead girl. Tliey could see a tremulous niolion at his 
nostrils, a convulsive quivering about his mouth. 

At last with an oalii — and O, forgive it kind Heaven, for it was but 
sworn to hide the sincere feeling of his heart — he laid his hand upon the 
head of the dog, which had crept silently to his side, and told the failliful 
animal 

" Debbil you am a rale brute, and no mistake ! Dars Missa Maylan' 
layin' dead — stone dead — she dat feed you and your Massa, many a hunder 
time — and you no cry one dam' tear !" 

Two large tears rolled down his face as he spoke, and the last sunbeam 
kissed the eyelids of the dead girl, and was gone. 

Some three or four years since, a ploughshare that upturned the soil 
■where a forest had stood in the Revolution, uncovered the grave of some 
unknown man. In that grave were discovered the skeleton of a human be- 
ing, the bones of an animal, and the rusted and blood-clotted blade of a scythe. 

Did the hand of the Avenger ever strike the tinselled wretch who had 
crushed into dishonor, the peasant-girl of iirandywine ? 

Even in the presence of Washington, while encircling the Chieftain with 
British soldiers he fell, stricken doxHi by the quiet Gilbert Gates, who whis- 
pered in his freezing ear " Thou didst dishonor her — thou, that hadst no 
fatlier's blood to avenge !" 

As the handsome Captain writhed in the dust — Washington amazed, the 
British soldiers maddened by the sight — the pretended Quaker true to his 
instinct of falsehood, whispered to the one, " Washington I have saved 
thee!" and to the others — "Behold the order of friend Cornwallis, com- 
manding this deed !" 

Need we gaze upon the fate of this strange man, Gilbert Gates the Son 
of the Ilunter-Spy .' His crimes, his oath, his life, were all dyed with in- 
nocent blood, bul the last scene which closed the page of this world to him 
forever, is too dark and bloody to be told. 

In a dim nook of the woods of Brandywine, two vigorous hickory trees 
bending over a pool of water, in opposite directions, had been forced by 
strong cords together, and firmly joined into one. Those cords once 
separated — the knot which combined them once untied — it was plainly to 
be seen that the hickory trees would spring back to their natural position, 
with a terrific rebound. 

The knot was untied by a rifle-ball. But the moment, ere the trees 
sprung apart with a sound like thunder, you might see a human form lashed 
by the arms and limbs, to their separate branches. 

It was the form of Gilbert Gales, the Son of the Hunter-Spy. The ball 
that untied the knot, was sped from the rifle of Goilieb Hoff, the plighted 
husband of the dishonored girl. 



BLACK SAMPSON. 37^ 

We have followed to its end, the strange and varied career of Gilbert 
Gates, the False Quaker of Brandyvvine. Now let us look upon a Friend 
of another kind. The day before the batde, there stood in the shadows 
of the forest, at a point where two roads met, a man of some fifty-eight 
years, one hand resting on the bridle-rein of his well-fed nag, and the other 
pressed against his massive brow. He was clad in the Quaker dress. A 
man of almost giant stature, his muscular limbs clad in sober drab, his 
ruddy face and snow-white hairs crowned by a broad-rimmed hat. The 
leaves formed a canopy above his head, as he stood wrapped in deep and 
exciting thoughts, while his sleek, black horse— a long known and favorite 
animal— bending his neck, cropped the fragrant wild grass at his feet. 

The stout Quaker felt the throes of a strange mental contest quivering 
through his veins. The father butchered by his hearthstone, the mother dis- 
honored in the presence of her children, the home in flames, and the iiearth a 
Golgotha— these are not very Christian sights, and yet the old Quaker had 
seen them all. And now with his heart torn by the contest between his 
principles and his impulses,— his principles were ' Pe«cf /', his impulses 
shrieked ' Wushwg!on.''—he had come here to the silent woods to think 
the matter over. He wished to shoulder a rifle in the Army of freedom, 
but the principles of his life and creed forbade the thought. After much 
tliought, and it must be said, severe though silent Prayer, the stout Quaker 
resolved to test the question by a resort to the ancient metiiod of ordeal or 
lottery. " Now," said he, as the sunlight played with his white hairs — " I 
stand here, alone in the woods, where two roads meet. I will turn my favorite 
horse, even Billy, loose, to go wherever he pleaseth. If he takes the road 
on the right, I will get me a rifle and join tlie Camp of Friend Washington. 
But in case he takes the road on the left, I will even go home, and mind 
my own business. Now, Billy, thee is free — go where it pleaseth thee^ 
and mind what thee's about !" 

The loosened rein fell dangling on Billy's sleek neck. The patriotic 
friend beheld him hesitate on the point where the two paths joined ; he 
saw him roll his large eyes lazily from side to side, and then slowly saun- 
ter toward the road on the left — tiie ' Home ' road. 

As quick as thought, the stout Quaker started forward, and gave the rein 
almost imperceptible, but powerful inclination toward the ' Washington 
Road,' exclaiming in deprecatory tones — " iVow thee stupid thing.' I 
verihj thought thee had better sense .'" 

Whether the words or the sudden movement of the Quaker's hand, 
worked a change in Billy's mind, we cannot tell, but certain it is, that while 
the grave Friend, with his hands dropped by his side, calmly watched the 
result, the sagacious horse changed his course, and entered the ' Washing- 
ton road.' 

" Verily, it is ordered so !" was the quiet ejaculation of the Quaker, as 
he took his way to the camp of Washington. We need not say, that he 
did a hravp work in the battle of Brandy wine. 

% 

f 



372 THE BATTLE OI" BRANDYWINE. 



XVIII.-THE MECnAMC HERO OF BRANDYWINE. 

Near Dilworth corner, at Ihe time of the Revolution, tliere stood a quiet 
cottage, soniewliat retired from the road, under the shade of a stout chesnul 
tree. It was a quiet cottage, nestling away there in one corner of the forest 
road, a dear home in the wilderness, with sloping roof, walls of dark grey 
stone, and a casement hidden among vines and flowers. 

On one side, amid an interval of the forest trees, was seen the rough 
outline of a blacksmith's shop. There was a small garden in front, with a 
brown gravelled walk, and beds of wild flowers. 

Here, at the time of the Revolution, there dwelt a stout blacksmith, his 
young wife and her babe. — What cared that blacksmith, working away there 
in that shadowy nook of the forest, for war ? What feared lie for the peril 
of the times, so long as his strong arm, ringing that hammer on tlie anvil, 
might gain bread for his wife and child ! 

Ah, he cared little for war, he took iitile note of the panic that shook the 
valle)', when some few morninjs belbre the battle of the Brandy wine, while 
shoeing the horse of a Tory Refugee, he overheard a plot for the surprise 
and capture of Washington. The American leader was to be lured into the 
toils of the torics ; his person once in the Hritish camp, the English General 
might send the " Traitor Washington" home, to be tried in London. 

Now our blacksmith, working away there, in that dim nook of the forest, 
without caring for battle or war, had still a sneaking kindness for this Mister 
Washington, whose name rung on the lips of all men. So one night, bid- 
ding his young wife a hasty good-bye, and kissing the babe that reposed on 
her bosom, smilinsr as it slept, he hurried away to the American camp, aud 
fold his story to Washington. 

It was morning ere he came back. It was in the dimness of the autum- 
nal morning, that the blacksmith was plodding his way, along the forest 
road. Some few paces ahead there was an aged oak, standing out into the 
road — a grim old veteran of the forest, that had stood the shocks of three 
hundred years. Right beyond that oak was the blacksmith's home. 

W'ith this thought warming his heart, he hurried on. lie hurried on, 
thinking of the calm young face and mild blue eyes of that wife, who, the 
night before, had stood in the cottage door, waving him out of siglit with a 
beckoned good-bye — thinking of the baby, thai lay smiling as it slept upoi\ 
her bosom, he hurried on — he turned the bend of the wood, he looked upon 
his home. 

Ah ! what a sight was there '. 

Where, the night before, he had left a peaceful colt.igc. smiling under a 
green chesnut tree, in the light of the setting sjin, now was only a heap of 
black and smoking embers and a burnt and blasted tree ! 

This was his home ! 




THE MECHANIC HERO OF DRANDYWINE. 373 

And there stood tlie blacksinilli gazing upon tlmt wreck of liis hearth- 
stone ; — there he stood witli foUIed arms and moody brow, but in a moment 
a smile broke over his face. 

He saw it all. In tlie night his iiome had taken fire, and been burned to 
cinders. But his wife, his cliild liad escaped. For that he thanked God. 

With the toil of his stout arm, plying there on the anvil, he would build 
a fairer home for wife and child ; fresh flowers should bloom over the 
garden walks, and more lovely vines trail along the easement. 

With this resolve kindling over his face, the blacksmith stood there, with 

a cheerful light beaming from his large grey eyes, when a hand was 

laid upon his shoulder. 

He turned and beheld the face of a neighbor. 

It was a neighbor's face ; but there was an awful agony stamping those 
plain features — there was an awful agony flashing from those dilating eyes 
— there was a dark and a terrible mystery speaking from those thin lips, 
that moved, but made no sound. 

For a moment that farmer tried to speak the horror that convulsed his 
features. 

At last, forcing the blacksmith along the brown gravelled walk, now strewn 
■with cinders, he pointed to the smoking embers. There, there — amid that 
leap of black and smoking ruins, the blacksmith beheld a dark mass of 
'ijurnt flesh and blackened bones. 

"Your wife!" shrieked the farmer, as his agony found words. "The 

British they came in the night they" and then he s-poke that outrage, - 

which the lip quivers to think on, which the heart grows palsied to tell — 
that outrage too foul to name — " Your wife," he shrieked, pointing to that 
hideous thing amid the smoking ruins ; " the British they murdered your 
wife, they flung her dead body in the flames — they dashed your child 
against the hearthstone !" 

This was the farmer's story. 

And there, as the light of the breaking day fell around the spot, there 
stood the husband, the father, gazing upon that mass of burned flesh and 
blackened bones — all that was once his n'ife. 

Do you ask me for the w.oiids.. that trembled from his white lips ? Do 
you ask me for the f'ue that blazed in his eye ? 

I cannot tell you. But I can tell you that there was a vow going up to 
Heaven from that blacksmith's heart; llial there was a clenched hand, up- 
raised, in the light of the br^akin? d:iy ! 

■ Yes, yes, as the first gleam nf i!i ■ autumnal dawn broke around the spot, 
as the first long gleam of sunlight streamed over the peeled skidl of that 
fair young wife — she was that last night — there was a vow going- up to 
Heaven, the vow of a maddened heart and anguished brain. 

How was that vow kept? Go there to Brandywine, and v.'here the car- 
nac-e o-athers thickest, where the light is most bloody, there you may see a 

° ° .45 



374 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

sloiil foiin striilin^on, liftinff a huge hammer into light. Where that ham- 
mer f:\lls, it kills — where lluil hainiuer strikes, it crushes ! It is the hlaek- 
smilh's Ibrm. And the war-cry (hat he shouts ? It is a mail cry of ven- 
geance — half howl, half hurrah ! Is it hut a lierce yell, hreaking up from 
his heaving chest ? 

Ah no ! Ah no ! 

It is the name of — Mary ! It is the name of his young wife ! 

Oh, Mary — sweetest name of women — name so soft, so rippling, so musi- 
cal — name of the Mother of Jesus, made holy hy poetry and religion — 
liow strangely did your syllables of music ring out from that hlacksmith's 
lips, as he went murdering on ! 

"Mary !" he shouts, as he drags that red-coated trooper from his steed : 
" Mary !" he shrieks, as his hammer crashes down, laying that officer in 
the dust. Look ! Another olllcer, with a gallant face and form — another 
officer, glittering in tinsel, clasps that blacksmith by the knees, and begs 
mercy. 

" I have a wife — mercy ! I have a wife yonder in England — spare 
me!" 

The blacksmith, crazed as he is, trembles — there is a tear in his eye. 

" I would spare you, but there is a form before me — the form of my 
dead wife ! That form has gone before me all day ! She calls on me to 
strike !" 

And the hammer fell, and then rang out that strange war-cry — " Mary !" 

At last, when the battle was over, he was found by a wagoner, who had 
at least shouldered a carlwliip in his country's service — he was found silting 
by the roadside, his head sunken, his leg broken — the life blood welling 
from his many wounds. 

The wagoner would have carried him from the field, but the stout black- 
smith refused. 

" You see, neighbor," he said, in that voice husky with death, " I never 

meddled with the British till they burned by home, till they " he could 

not speak the outrage, but his wife and child were there before his dying 
eyes — " And now I've but five minutes' life in me. I'd like to give a shot 
at the British afore I die. D'ye see that cherry tree ? D'ye think you 
could drag a man of my build up thar ? Place me thar ; give me a powder- 
horn, three rifle balls an' a good rifle; that's all I ask." 

The wagoner granted his request; he lifted him to the foot of the cherry 
tree ; he placed the rifle, the balls, the powder-horn in his grasp. 

Then whipping his horses through the narrow pass, from the summit of 
a neighboring height, he looked down upon the last scene of the black- 
smith's life. 

There lay the stout man, at the foot of the cherry tree, his head, his 
broken leg hanging over the roadside bank. The blood was streaming from 
his wounds — he was d) ing. 



1 



*■ 

^ 



ANTHONY WAYNE AT CRANDYWINE. 375 

Suddenly he raised liis liead — a sound struck on his ears. A parly of 
Brilisli came rushing along the narrow road, mad with carnage and thirsting 
for blood. They pursued a scattered baud of Continentals. An officer led 
tlie way, waving ihcm on with his swoid. 

The blacksmith loaded his rille; with that eye bright with death he look 
the aim. " That's for Washington '." he shouted as he fired. The officer 
lay quivering in the roadside dust. On and on came the British, nearer and 
nearer to the clierry tree — the Continentals swept through the pass. Again 
the blacksmith loaded — again he liretl. " That's for mad Anthony Wayne !" 
he shouted as another officer bit the sod. 

The British now came rushing to the cherry tree, determined to cut 
down the wounded man, who with his face toward them, bleeding as he 
was, dealt death among their ranks. A fair-visaged officer, with golden 
hair waving on the wind, led them on. 

Tlie blacksmith raised his rifle ; wiih that hand stiffening in death, he 
took the aim — he fired — the young Biilon fell with a sudden shriek. 

" And that," cried tlie blacksniitli, in a voice that strengthened into a 
shout, "and that's for " 

His voice was gone ! The shriek died on his white lips. 

His head sunk — his ride fell. 

A single word bubbled up with his death groan. Even now, methinks I 
hear that word, echoing and trembling there among the rocks of Brandy- 
wine. That word was — Mary ! 

XIX.— ANTIIONY WAYNE AT BRANDYWINE. 

ON-a cold winter's day — far back in the olden time — in front of a rude 
stone school-house, that arose from among an orchard, whose leafless 
branches stood out against the clear blue sky, a crowd of school boys 
might have been seen hurrying to and fro, in all the excitement of batde. 

Their cheeks glowed crimson with the fever of the fight, as armed with 
little globes of snow, they raised their battle shout, they met in conflict, 
now rallying here, now retreating yonder, one party defending the entrench- 
ments of ice and snow, while another band came on, the forlorn hope of 
the mimic fray. 

It was true, the weapons that they hurled, the fort, which was at once 
the object of attack and defence, were all of frozen snow, yet the conflict 
was carried on with an energy and skill worthy of many a bloodier fight. 1 

You see the fort, rising before the dark school-house wall, a mound of 
ice, over a waste of snow, its summit lined with the brave defenders, 
while the forlorn hope of the enemy come rushing to the conflict, resolved 
to force the entrenchments and put the conquered soldiers to the sword. 
Not sword of steel, but a formidable blade carved with a pen-knife from a 
branch of oak or hickory. 



376 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

Thehcarly shouts of tlic combatants, ring out upon the air, llieir cliceks 
flusli, llieir eyes fire ; tlie contest deepens and tlie crisis of the light is near. 

You see tliat boy, not more than ten years old, standing erect upon llie 
fortress wall, iiis hazel eyes rolling like sparks of fire, in liis ruddy face, 
while his curly h;iir, wiiilo with snowy fragments, is blown around his brow, 
by the winter wind ? 

He is the Master Spirit of the scene. 

lie urges his comrades with his merry shout, now bending to gathernew 
balls of snow, now hurling them in the face of the enemy, wliile his ciiest 
heaves, expands, his nostrils quiver, his lips curl with the excitement of 
the hour. 

It was he tliat raised this fort, and leading his comrades from their books, 
marshalled ihein in battle array. 

It is he, that retreating behind the wall, lures the enemy to the attack, 
and then suddenly starting into view, with flushed cheeks and sparkling 
eyes, shouts the word of command, and pours confusion in their ranks. 

Backed by his comrades, he springs from the fort — again that shout — one 
charge more and the day is ours ! Not a moment does he allow the enemy 
to recover their broken ranks, but piles the snow upon their heads, and 
sends the battle home. The air is thick with bombs of snow; a frosty 
shower whitens their checks, and dangles in glittering gems from their 
waving hair. 

Still that hearty shout, still that brave boy in front, still his little hands 
are raised, wielding the missiles of the light, as with his chest heaving and_ 
one foot advanced, he stands upon the frozen snow, and shouts his com- 
rades to the charge. ^^k 

The enemy break, they scatter, they fly ! ^^^ 

The boy with the clear eye of hazel, the curling hair of chesnut brown, 
is victor of the field. 

You may smile at this contest, laugh at the gloom of the gruft' school- 
master's visage, projecting from yonder window, and yet the day will come, 
when the enraged Pedagogue will hear this boy's name rung in the lips of 
the nation, as the hero of an hundred bloody battles ! The day is coming, 
when that little hand will yield an iron sxtord, while the hazel eye, flamin<r 
from a face bathed in sweat and blood, will, with fienzicd joy, survey the 
mists, the glare, the hurrying ranks, the awful panorama of no mimic fight. 

Time passed on, and the people of the good old couniy of Chester often 
noted, a stripling, with his gun on his shoulder, wandering through the 
woods of Brandywinc, or sitting beside these still waters, holding the fishing 
rod, from the brow of a projecting rock, his bare feet dipping in the waves, 
as his hazel eye shone with visions of the future. 

Time passed on, and there came a day, when this boy, grown to man- 
hood, stood on the summit of a mound that rose from the meadows of the 
Brandy wine. 



i 



AN'THONY WAYNE AT BRANDYWINE. 377 

It was in tlie early morning time, when the light of the stars was scarcely 
paled by the glow of the autumnal dawn. 

Looking from the iicight of the fortified knoll, defended by a deep ditch 
and grim with cannon, General Wayne awaited the approach of the enemy. 
Beneath him spread the valley, gleaming with American arms; yonder 
rippled the stream, so soon to be purpled in its every wave, with the life- 
drops of human hearts. On the opposite shore of the Brandywine, arose 
wooded steeps, towering abruptly from the bed of the rivulet, crowned from 
the ripple to the sky with forest trees. 

Wayne stood on the summit of the knnll, his face flushed with deep 
anxiety. He was about to fighl, not like La Fayette, for a strange people 
of a far land, not like Pulaski, as an Exile and a Wanderer, nor yet like 
AVashington, the leader of a People. No ! Surrounded by the memories 
of childhood, his foot upon his native soil, his chest swelhng with the air 
that came rich and liMgrant over the orchards of his native valley, he had 
buckled on th^ sword to fight for that soil, he stood prepared to si)end his 
blood in defence of that valley. 

By his side stood his gallant roan, caparisoned for the batUe. 

Tradition tells us, that it was a noble steed, with small head, broad chest 
and tapering limbs. When he rushed into the fight, it was widi neck arched, 
eye rolling in fire, and dark mane quivering on the batde breeze. But when 
his master's shout rung on the air, sounding the charge wiiich mowed the 
foemen down like stubble before the flame, then the gallant roan uttered his 
batde neigh and went through the smoke and into tlie fire like a bomb shell, 
hurled from the mortar along the darkened sky. 

Wayne stood with his hand resting on his sword hilt. In stature, not 
more than an inch above the middle heiglh, in form displaying a hardy 
energ}', an iron vigor in every oudiue, was clad in a blue coat faced with 
buff, and falling open on his broad chest. There was a belt of dark leather 
over his breast, military boots on his limbs, a plain chapeau, surmounted by 
a plume of mingled red and white, surmounted his brow. 

Beneath that plume you might behold the broad forehead, the aquiline 
nose, the clear, deep hazel eyes. It was the face of a warrior, nurtured 
from boyhood to love the blaze of cannon, and hail the clang of contending 
swords, as the bridegroom hails the marriage music. 

Surrounded by his brave*inen, Wayne looked upon the opposite steeps, 
and looked for the bayonets of the foe. 

At last tliey came. By the first gleam of morning light, he saw the 
Hessian soldiers, burly in form, loaded wilh ornaments and armed to the 
teeth, emerge from the shadows of the trees. Their heavy accoutrements, 
their lofly caps, bushy with fur, their well-filled knapsacks, were all clearly 
perceptible in the morning light. And the same sun that shone over their 
bayonets, revealed not only the British banner, waving slowly in the morn- 



378 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

iiig air, but the Hags of IIcssc and Anspach fiullcring above their hordes of 
slaves, 

Wavne beheld iheni come, and spoke to the cannoniers, arrayed in tlieir 
fiidod uniform of lilue ami InilV. 

In a nionicnl, lliosc cannon at his feet uttered a volume of smoke, that 
roiii'd ill folds of nlooiny grandeur, high upward into the azure heavens. 

He spoke to the Killemen, in their rude hunling shirts of blue, with llie 
powder horn and knife at their sides. 

He saw them rush from the embankment, he beheld them overspread the 
meadow. Here, the steel rap of Porterlield, with its bucktail plume, there, 
the short sword of IMaxwcll, f;loaming over the heads of his men. Bend- 
ing from the forlilied knoll, Wayne watched their earecr, with an interest 
that fired his eye with deeper light. 

Over the meadow, inlo the trees, — a solitary rifle shot yelled on the air, 
a solitary death-groan shrieked into the clear heavens. 

The battle had begun. 

Then crash on crash, peal on peal, the bands of Maxwell and Porterfield 
poured their balls into the faces of the Hessian foe. 

Wayne beheld them glide among the trees, he saw the enemy recoil in 
the midst of the waters, he heard their cries, but did not hear the shouts of 
his Killemen. For these Itiflemen, in the l.our of batUo, scarcely ever 
spoke a word widi their lips. When they had a message to send, it spoke 
out from the lubes of their rilles. And these rifles always spoke to the heart ! 
I For the first time, that blue sky was clouded by the smoke of conflict. 
For the first time, the groans of Christians hewn down by Christians, yelled 
on the air. For the first time, tlie Urandywine was stained with blood of 
the white man ; for the first time, dead men, borne onward by its waves, 
with their faces to the light, looked up with glassy eyes and glided on ! 

Wayne beheld it all ! 

AVIiile the Hessian cannon answered to liis own, while the fire from this 
knoll was answered by the blaze yonder, Wayne bent forward, laid his 
hand ou the neck of his steed and watched the current of the light. 

He was about to spring on his steed and rush inlo the confiirt, when he 
saw his Uillomen come out from the wooils again, their arnvs dnnmed, llieir 
faces dabbled with blood. They had driven the Hessians back step by step, 
foot by foot they had hurled them back upon flje opposite sliore, aud now 
while the water dripped from their attire, silently lined the banks, awaiting 
the next onset of the foe. 

The morning passed away, and the enemy did not resume their attack. 
Tiie.r arms gleamed far over the hills, their banners waved on every side, 
between the leaves of the forest oaks, and yet they dared not cross the 
Urandywine again. Five thousand strong, they held their jwsition in si- 
lence, planted their eanmui, arrayed their columns, and silently prepared the 
destruction of the Rebel Foe. 



ANTHONY WAYNE AT BRANDYWINE. 37i) 

The morning passed. Shaken by a thousand conflicting emotions, 
Washington hurried ah)ng the eastern heights of Brandywine, his grey 
horse, now seen among the trees of Breiiton's Ford, now darting through 
the batlle-smoiie of Chadd's Ford, now halting beside the gallant roan of 
Anthony Wayne. He knew not, whether the attack of Kniphausen was a 
mere feint; at one moment he anticipated the approach of the British in 
full force, eighteen thousand strong, across the Brandywine, at another, 
turning his eye away from the waters of the stream, he awaited the gleam 
of Cornwallis' arms, from the northern woods. 

Wayne and Washington stood on the summit of tlie fortified knoll, talk- 
ing long and earnestly together. The same expression of suspense and 
anxiety animated the lineaments of each warrior face. 

The morning passed away. 

Meanwhile, pausing on their arms, the Americans awaited the renewal 
of the attack, but they waited for hours in vain. It was not made when 
eleven o'clock came, and the sun was rising towards his noonday height ; 
and Sullivan looked anxiously and eagerly from the heights were he was 
stationed, for tlie appearance of the enemy at Brinton's Ford, but they came 
not; nor could his scouts give him any intelligence of the movements of 
Howe or Cornwallis. 

General Kniphausen, he well knew, had made the attempt to cross at,- 
Chadd's Ford, and had been nobly and gallandy repulsed; but the larger 
divisions of the enemy — where were they ? What was their plan of oper- 
ations ? Where would Howe appear, or in what quarter would Cornwallis 
commence the attack ? 

All was wrapt in mystery to the minds of Washington, Wayne and the 
leader of his right wing. Tliis silence of Howe and Cornwallis they feared 
Jiad something of omen — dark and fearful omen — of defeat and dismay, for 
its explanation. 

Eleven o'clock came, and Washington, with Sullivan by his side, stood 
gazing from an elevated knoll, about half-way- between Brinton's and Chadd's 
Ford. 

A horsoman was observed riding up the lull-side at the top of his horse's 
speed. His attire seemed to be that of a substantial yeoman, his coat hung 
on liis arm, his hat was extended in his upraised hand; his dress was dis- 
ordered, his face covered widi dust, and, as he rode up the hill-side, he sank 
the spurs in the Hanks of his horse, whose eye glared wildly, while the 
dust and foam on his limbs showed that he had borne his master long and 
far. 

In a moment the horseman flung himself from his horse, and rushed to 
the side of Washington. In hurried words he told his story, his manner 
was warm, urgent even to agony. He was a farmer — his name was Chay- 
lor — he lived some miles northward of Kennet's Square — early on that 



J? 



880 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

niorning he had been aroused by the tread of armed men and the (ramp of 
war steeds. 

He looked from his window, and bcliehl the Urilish army passing nortli- 
ward — (ieneral Howe and Lord Uornwalhs were with thcin. 

He believed it to be the intention of the enemy to make the passage of 
the Ikandywine at Trimble's Ford and Jeflrey's Ford, some miles above 
the forks of the river — to ocriipy the l]ii;h liills to the nortinvard of Uir- 
ininjiiiam meelinj;-housc, and tlins havinij the entire riijht wioij of liie Con- 
tinental forces laid open to his altaek, Howe thought he might aceomplish 
an easy vietory. 

'J'liis was the story of the farmer, and Washington would liave g'lven it 
credence, were it not for one fcarfvd doubt that darkened over liis mind. 
Tiie surrounding country swarmed willi lories — might not this be a tory 
spy in disguise ? He disrredited the story of the farmer, though he en- 
forced its truth by an appeal to an oath, and even continued to niter it, with 
tears in his eyes, yet still under the influence of this fearful suspicion, 
Washington refused his credence to the story of Farmer Ciiaytor. This 
mistake lost the httft/e of the Brandy wine. 

Soon after this iiicii'ent, Sullivan received information by the liands of 
Lieutenant Colonel Ross, that the enemy had just passed the forks of the 
Braudywine, some two or three miles above the Fork, five thousand strong, 
and provided with sixteen or eighteen field pieces. 

No sooner was this information transmitted to Washington, than he 
ordered Sullivan to advance towards the Forks, and attack this division of 
the enemy. Ikit as Sullivan is about to undertake this movement, fresh 
scouts come in, and report no intelligence of the British army whatever in 
the quarter named. The movement was postponed; and while Sullivan 
was thus shifting from one opinion to another, while Washington, with 
AVayne, was expecting the attack at Chad.l's Ford, through this unfortunate 
contradiction of conflicting intelligence, the enentj- was allowed to take a 
secure and powerful position, some three miles north-cast of Brinton's 
Ford, and some four miles from Chadd's Ford. 

We have seen the batde which ensued, and gone through its varies phases 
of ferocity and chivalry. 

AVhile Washington with his Generals, Sullivan, Greene, and La-Favette 
was doing immortal deeds in the valley of the Quaker Temple, alone on the 
lieights of Chadd's Ford, stood Anthony Wayne, breasting the overwhelm- 
ing force of the Hessian army, with his litde band of heroes. 

With a thousand half-armed Continentals, he opposed five thousand hire- 
lings, prepared in every respect for the gitme of war, their cannon glooming 
in every steep, their bayonets gleaming on every hill. 

It was at four o'clock, that the valley of the Urandywine near Chadd's 
Ford, presented a spectacle worthy of the brightest days of chivalry. 



ANTHONY WAYNE AT BRANDYWINE. gj^i 

At first looking from tlie steep where Wayne watehed the fight, liis hand 
laid OP. the neck of his steed, you behold nothing but vast clouds of smoke 
rolling like the folds of an immense curtain over the valley. Throiich 
these clouds, streamed every instant great masses of flame. Then long and 
arrowy flashes of light, quivered ihrongh their folds. Now liiey wore tlie 
blackness of midnigiit, in a moment ihey were changed into masses of 
snow. 

And as they swayed to and fro, you might behold a strange meeting 
which took place in the lap of the valley. Pouring from the woods above 
the stream, the Hessian hordes in their varied and picturesque costume, 
came swarming over the field. As they advanced, the cannon above their 
heads on the western hills, belched volumes of fire and death, and lighted 
them on their way. As they came on, their musqnets poured volley after 
volley, into the faces of the foe. Their wild batde-shout was heard, in the 
din of conflict. Altogether the war of ciinnon, the sharp clang of musquetry, 
the clouds now rolling here, now floating yonder, the bayonets gleaming 
like scattered points of flame, far along the field, presented a scene at once 
wild and beautiful. 

And there in the centre of the valley, under the very eye of AVayne, a 
band of men, some clad in plain farmer's attire, some in the hunting shirt 
of the backwoodsman, stood undismayed while the Hessians swarmed on 
^very side. No shout broke from their sturdy ranks. Silently loading 
their rifles, they stood as though rooted to the sod, every one selecting a 
broad chest for his target, as he raised his piece to the shoulder. 

The sod beneath was slippery with blood. The faces of dead mea 
glared horribly all around. '1 he convulsed forms of wounded soldiers — 
whose arms had been torn oil' at the shoulder, whose eyes had been dark- 
ened forever, whose skulls had been crushed from the crown to the brow — 
were beneath their feet. 

And yet they fought on. They did not shout, but waiting patiendy until 
they might almost touch the bayonets of the Hessians, they poured the 
blaze of rifles in their faces. And every time that blaze lighted up the 
cloud, a new heap of dead men littered the field. 

Still the Hessians advanced. Sold by their King to Murder, at so much 
per da}', very brutes in human shape whose business it was to Kill, they 
trampled the dead bodies of their own comrades into the sod, uttered their 
yell and plunged into the ranks of the Continental soldiers. 

In vain the gleam of their bayonets which shone so beautiful, in vain their 
hoarse shout, which echoed afar like the howl of savage beasts, mangling 
their prey, in vain their elegantly Srranged columns, displayed in the most 
approved style of European warfare ! 

The American riflemen met them breast to breast, and sent their bullets 
home. Their faces darkened by powder, spotted with blood, their uncouth 
attire fluttering in rags, they did not move one inch, but i.a stern silence only 

46 



882 THE BATTLE OF DRANDYWINE. 

broken by tlie rrpori of ilK'ir rillos, these Continental heroes met the onset 
of the foe. 

Siuldeiily the sun broke tliroiigli the elouds, and lighted up the llieatre of 
battle. 

Ahnost (it tlie same moment a venel•.^ble mansion risinij among the woods 
on yoiuier shore of the Urasulywine, ascended to the sky, in a whirling 
cloud of smoke and liame. lilown up by the explosion of powder, it shot 
a long column of lire and blackness into the sk)', and then its fragments 
strewed the battle-field, mingled with the mangUnl wrecks of human forms. 

Antliony Wayne, resting his hand on the neck of his steed, beheld it all. 

He quivered in every nerve with the excitement of the combat, and yet 
pressing his lip between his teeth, awaited the moment when his sword 
should tlash from the scabbard, his roan war-horse dash like a thunderbolt 
into tlie storm of battle. 

That moment came at last. It was when the bloody contest had rolled 
over the valley for an hour and more, that the crisis came. 

Look yonder along the summit of the western hills, where the Ilessiatl 
banner darkens through the trees ! liook yonder and behold that gallant 
company of warriors wind slowly down the hill, their swords, their helmets, 
their plumes, brightening in the glow of the setting sun. Four hundred 
strong, all attired in midniglit black, relieved by gold, each helmet bearing 
the ominous skull and cross bones emblazoned on its front, the dragoons o(* 
Auspach came to buide. 

At their head mounted on a snow-white steed, whose uplifted head and 
quivering nostrils denote the fever of the strife, rides a man of warrior pre- 
sence, his steel helmet shadowed beneath a mass of dark plumes, his broad 
chest clad in a rich uniform, black as the raven's wing, glittering with stars 
and epaulettes of gold. It is Kniphausen, the General of the Hessian horde, 
riding at the head of veteran troopers, the bravest assassins of his hireling 
band. 

In their rude faces, darkened by the heavy mustachio and beard, cut and 
hacked i)y scars, you read no gleam of pity. The cry of" Quarter !" falls 
unheeded on the ears of men like these. No matter how just or infamous 
the cause, their business is war, their pastime butciiery. Unfurling the 
black flag of their Prince — you see the Skidl and Cross bones glittering in 
the sun — they descend the hill, dash tlirough the stream, and pour the 
avalanche of liicir charge upon the Continental host. 

Wayne saw them come, and glanced for a moment on their formidable 
array. Then turning he beheld the steeds of some two hundred troopers, 
scattered through the orchard at his badli, the swords of their riders touch- 
ing the ripe fruit which hung from the bending boughs. 

Wayne silently removed his plumed chapeau, and took from the hands 
of a soldier at his side, his trooper's helmet, faced with steel and adorned 
with a single bucklaii plume. 



ANTHONY WAYNE AT DRANDYWINE. 383 

Then vauhing in the saddle, he unsheathed his sword, and turning to the 
troopers shouted in his deep, indignant tones, tiie simple battle-word— 
" Come on !" 

He plunged from the embankment, and ere his gallant roan had reached 
the base of the knoll, forth from the orchard trees burst that band of tried 
soldiers, and with their swords steadily gleaming, thundered in one solid 
mass down into the whirlpool of the fight. 

Their banner, a White Horse painted on a blue field, and surrounded 
with Thirteen Stars, fluttered out upon the breeze; that single peal of the 
trumpet sounding the charge, shrieked far along the meadow. 

Right througli the battle Kiiiphausen crashes on, the swords of his men 
describing fiery circles in the air, the riflemen fall back, cut by their steel, 
crushed by their horses hoofs, panic stricken by their Hessian hurrah. 

But courage, brave yeomen ! Wayne is coming; his banner is on tlie 
breeze, his sword rises above his head, a glittering point of flame amid tliat 
sea of rolling clouds. 

The soldiers who remained on the embarkment, beheld a strange and 
stirring sight. 

Anthony Wayne, at the head of two hundred brave troopers, dashing 
toward the centre of the meadow, from the east — tlie Hessian Kniphausen, 
at llie same moment advancing to tlie same point from the west. Between 
the Generals lay heaps of dead and dying; around them, the riflemen and 
Yagers, these in the hunting shirt, the others in a gaudy dress of green, 
waged a desperate and bloody contest. 

Wayne turned his head over his shoulder, and waved hissword — " Come 
on !" the deep words rung through his clenched teeth. 

They knew his voice, knew the glare of his battle eye, knew thatuphfted 
arm, and dented sword ! 

Never has Kniphausen, crashing on, in the full current of impetuous 
slaughter, bclield the trooper at his side, fall dead on tlie neck of his steed, 
the marks of the rifle-ball oozing from his brow, he also looked up and be- 
held the coming of Mad Anthony Wayne ! 

It cannot be said that Wayne fought after the most approved style of 
European tactics. 

But there was an honest sincerity about his manner of fighting, an un- 
pretending zeal in the method of his charge, when riding the enemy down, 
he wrote his name upon their faces with his sword, that taught them to 
respect the hardy son of Chester. 

" Upon them !" he shouted, and at once his two hundred troopers went 
into the heart of the Hessian column. They did not move v6ry slowly 
you will observe, nor advance in scattered order, but four abreast, a solid 
bolt of horses, men and steel, they burst upon the foe, just as you have 
seen a rock hurled from an enormous height, crush the trees in the valley 
beneath. 



3S4 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

The banner of the White Horse and Stars, mingled with the Black Flng 
of Anspach — a cloud of men, horses and swords, whirled like the last efibrt 
of a thunderstorm along tiie valley. In a inoinent, you can see nothing, 
but the points of swords, gleaming from the confusion of the conllicl. 
Then, troopers bending over the mane of their steeds, their good swords 
quivering together, ere the fatal blow — horses themselves, tired with the 
fury of the hour, tearing each other's necks with tiieir teelh — wounded 
men, plunging from their saddles to the sod — the banners of the focnien 
waving over all ! 

It was in the centre of that whirling figlil, that Kniphausen and Wayne, 
cutting their way with their swords, silently confronted each other. The 
dark figure on the white steed drew near and nearer to the form, attired in 
blue and buff, and mounted on a roan war-horse. Each riian beheld his 
foe, and their eyes met in a look, as searching as it was momentary. 

The appearance of Wayne indicated violent emotion. His lip compressed 
between his teeth, his hazel eye firing beneath the frontlet of his cap, he 
grasped his sword, and for one moment looked around. 

It was a hideous spectacle that met his eye. The Continentals scatter- 
ing over the -meadow, in broken array ; the ground heaped with the bodies 
of the dead ; the Brandywine, ghastly with the forces of the slain, thrown 
into light by its crimson waves. 

That look seemed to make the blood within him, boil like molten lead. 
For raising himself in his stirrips, he called to his brother knights — to Mar- 
sliall of Virginia, to Proctor of the Land of Penn, to the heroic riflemen, 
Maxwell and Portertield — he shouted, the day was not yet lost, and then, 
with one impulse, himself and his horse, charsrcd Kniphausen home. 

No human arm might stand ilie fury of that charge. In a moment 
Kniphausen found himself alone in the midst of his enemies, the sword of 
Wayne, glaring near and nearer to his heart, the faces of the Continentals 
darkening round. 

He appealed to his men, but in vain. To drive them back on the rivulet, 
to hurl them, horses and men together, into the red embrace of the waves, 
to cut the banner staff, and trail their banner in the mire, to sabre them by 
tens and twenties, as they strove to recover their battle order — this was a 
brilliant thing to do, but right brilliantly it was done, by Mad Anthony and 
his men. 

That sight thrilled like electric fire along the field. In a moment the 
Continentals rallied ; the riflemen advanced ; the artillery began to play, 
the air thundered once more with the batde shout ! 

Reining his roan war-horse on the banks of the Brandywine, his sword 
in sober truth dripping wilh blood, Anthony Wayne, his face quivering wiih 
the intoxication of the batUe, shouted to his soldiers, cheered them to the 
charge, saw them whirl the whole Hessian force into the stream. 



ANTHONY V/AYNE AT BilANDYWINE. 385 

How brilliantly the fire of hope and glory, lit up the hazel eye of 
Wayne ! 

At the instant, while the Hessian army in all its varied costume thronged 
the bed of the rivulet and scattered in dismay along the western shore, while 
Kniphausen mad with chagrin, hurried from rank to rank, cursing tlie men 
who would not fight, while Marshall and Proctor, Maxwell and PorterfieUl 
were hurrying their forces to the charge, the sun shone out from tlie west- 
ern sky and lighted up the Brandywine, the valley, the forces of tiie living 
and tlie crushed countenances of the dead. 

The sudden gush of sunlight bathed the brow of Anthony Wayne, as 
thrilling to his inmost heart, he waved his sword, and once more sounded 
the charge. 

At the very moment, in the very flush of his triumph, a strange sound 
from the east growled on the ears of the General. It was the tramp of 
the right wing under Washington, Sullivan and Greene, retreating from the 
field of the Quaker Temple. Wayne saw their broken array, and knew 
that the field, not the day was lost. 

His sword sank slowly to his side, with his face to the foe, he pointed 
the wity to old Chester; he uttered the deep v.'ords of command. 

"The soldiers of the right wing have been forced to retreat before supe- 
rior numbers — we will protect their retreat !" 

With surprise, indeed with awe, Kniphausen beheld the victorious band, 
who had just hurled his forces back upon the stream, slowly form in the 
order of retreat, their swords and banners gleaming in the sun. 

And as the Continental forces slowly wound along the eastern hiils — as 
Kniphausen proceeded to occupy the ground which they had deserted — a 
solitary warrior, the last of the rebel army, reined his steed on the knoll of 
Chadd's Ford, and with his blood-stained face glowing in the sunshine 
looked back upon the field, and in one glance surveyed its soil, transformed 
into bloody mire, its river floating with dead, its overlooking hills glittering 
with Hessian steel ! 

That one look, accompanied by a quivering of the lip, a heaving of hia 
broad chest, the last gaze over, and the roan war-horse turned away, bear- 
ing from the field of Brandywine its own hero, Mad Anthony Wayne ! 

From the rising to the setting of the sun, he had maintained the fight; 
on the hills ^ his childhood, he had worked out his boyhood's dream, and 
wrofb his name on the column of ages, with his battle sword.* 



* Note. — Among the many ridiculous anocdotes which are told of great men, none 
are more contemptible lh.\n two stories which are gravely written in connection with 
llic name of" Anthony Wayne. It is said on one occasion, when VVashin*xlon desired 
tlic presence of Wayne, at his council, the latter sent this messafre — " Yoii plan, and 
I'll ti-ecule ; Plan a7i altnclx nn Hell, and I'll storm Ihe. gates !" Whether the wit of 
this consists in its gross profanity, or drunken bravado, those grave genilcmen, who 
record it in their pages, may best answer. It is an insult on the memoiy oi the cUivul- 



380 TIIF. BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 



XX.-FORTY-SEVEN YEAUS AFTER THE BATTLE. 

It was a calm ami lovelj- day in summer — the tiiiip was morning, and 
tlic place the valley of tlie Birmingham meeting house. 'J'iie place was 
calm and lovely as on the battle morn, but Ibrty-sevcn long years had past 
since that day of terror, and yei the bye roads the hills and the plains, were 
all alive with people clad in liicir holiday costume. A long procession 
wound with banners and willi tlic gleam of arms, around the base of Os- 
borne's Hill, while in ihcir front the object of every eye, there rolled a 
close carriage, drawn bv six magnificent steeds, and environed by civic sol- 
diers who rent the air with shouts, and thing wreaths of tlowcrs and laurel 
beneath the horses' hoofs. 

Slowly and with peals of solemn music — the summer sun above, shining 
serenely from a cloudless sky — the carriage wound along the ascent of the 
Hill and in a few moments, while valley and plain below were black with 
people, the elegantly caparisoned steeds were reined in on the broad sum- 
mit of that battle-mount. 

There was a pause for a moment, and then an aged man, a veteran trem- 
ulous with the burden of seventy years, and grim witli scars — clad in the 
costume of the Revolution, approached and opened the carriage door. 

The crowd formed a silent circle around the scene. 

A man of some sixty years, tall in stature, magnificent in his bearing, 
stepped from the carriage, his form clad in a plain dress of blue, his un- 
covered brow glowing in tlie sun, with the grey hairs streaming to the 
breeze. 

lie stepped on the sod with the bearing of a man formed to win the hearts 
of men; he advanced with tlie manner of one of nature's Kings. For a 
moment he stood uncovered on the brow of the hill, with the sun shining 
on his noble brow, while his clear blue eye lighted up, as witii the memo- 
ries of forty-seven years. 

And then from plain, from hill, from vallej', from the lips of ten thousand 
freemen arose one shout — the thunder of a Peoples' gratitude — loud, pro- 
longed and deafening. The soldiers waved their swords on high — they 
raised their caps in the air — and again, and again, the shout went up to the 
clear heavens. — In that chorus of joy, only a word was intelligible, a word 
that bubbled Trom the overllowing fouiitaius of ten thousand hearts: 

" La Fayette !" 



rio Pennsylvanian, whose glory is ihc Ircnsurc of our liisiory. The other anecdoie, 
reads sonu'ihin^ like this: " Ciiti yoii lake that liaitery, U'avne," said Washington. 
"I will take it f>y 'Af Ixird .'" " Do not swonr, Aiiihoiiy." — " Then, uiM or uilhoul Ike 
Lont. rn take it /^^ Can anything be more utterly iitilike, Wayne f He was not a 
rulli;in. l)ut a gentleman. Why will these jonrncyineii historians, transform a brave 
and heroic man, into a braggart and blasphetner ( 



J 



FORTY-SEVEN YEARS AFTER THE BATTLE. 387 

The Stranger was observed to tremble with a strange emotion. lie who 
had fouglit undaunted in the battle of that valley forty-seven years ago, 
trembled like a child. The Hero of Two Revolutions, the Boy of Brandy- 
wine, the Prisoner of Olmutz, who flung his broad lands and princely reven- 
ues in the lap of freedom, now bowed his head, leaned upon the shoulder 
of the veteran and veiled his eyes from the liglit. 

VVIien he raised his face again, there were tears in his eyes. 

So beautiful that country bloomed before him, so darkly on his memory 
rushed the condition of blighted France ! The land of his birth trodden 
under the hoofs of the invader, the Bourbon-Idiot on her Throne, the Na- 
poleon of her love, dead in his island-gaol of St. Helena. And here an 
Exile — almost a homeless Wanderer — stood the Man of Two Revolutions, 
gazing upon the battle plain, which forty-seven years before had been 
crowded by British legions, but now bloomed only witii the blessings of 
peace, the smile of an all-paternal God ! 

The contrast between the Land of Washington and the Land of Napo- 
leon, was too much for La Fayette. 

He gazed upon tiie hills crowned widi woodlands, the farms blooming 
with cultivation and dotted with Homes upon the level plains, green as with 
the freshness of spring, the wide landscape glowing in the sun, the very 
Garden of the Lord — he gazed— ho thought of — France. The tears 
streamed freely down his cheeks. 

Then his blue eye surveyed the Quaker temple, rising on its far-off hill, 
surrounded by its grassy mounds. As on the battle-day it looked so with 
its grey walls and rude roof and narrow windows it now arose, the trees 
around it, quivering their tops in the morning light. 

Again the shout of that dense crowd thundered on the air. Welcome, wel- 
come the friend of Washington, La Fayette ! 

But it fell unheeded on his ear. His soul was with the Past. There 
forty-seven years before, he had seen Washington in all his ehivalric man- 
hood ; there Pulaski in his white array and battle-worn face, thundering on, 
in his hurricane charge; there Sullivan and Wayne and Greene, with all 
the heroes doing deeds that started into history ere the day was gone ; he 
had seen, known them all, and loved the Chief of all. 

And now 

He stretched forth his arms, and clasped the veteran of the Revolution to 
his heart. 

" They're all gone, now — " were the earnest words that bubbled from 
his full heart : " All comrade, but you ! Of all the chivalry of Brandy wine 
that forty-seven years ago, blazed along these hills, what now remains ?" 

Then as the vision of his blighted France, rushed once again upon his 
soul, he murmured incoherently, " My God ! My God ! Happy country 
— happy People !" 

There on the summit of the Battle-IIill he leaned his arm upon hi? 



388 THE BATTLE OI' BRANDYWINE. 

brotlipr vrtrrnii, not Inisliu!; his toiicnc with fiirllicr sprnrh. His lieart 
was too full lor words. As he sitootl overwlielmed by liis ctnolions, the 
slio'.it of the people was heard once more — 

" Welcome llie Chaniploa of Freedom in two Worhls, the hero of Bran- 
dywiiic and friend of Wasliiiigton, welcome La Fayette!" 



BOOK FIFTH. 



THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 



MEN AND THEIR MISSION. 



The Declaration ; its source ; its action vpon mankind in the 
Kevolutions of America and France. 



(389) 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 



I— THE DAV. 

Let me paint you a picturR on the canvass of the Past. 

It is a cloudless summer day. Yes, a clear blue sky arches and smiles 
above a quaint edifice, rising among giant trees, in the centre of a wide city. 
That edifice is built of red brick, with heavy window frames and a massy 
hall door. The wide-spreading dome of St. Peter's, the snowy pillars of 
the Parthenon, the gloomy glory of Westminster Abbey — none of these, nor 
any thing like these are here, to elevate this edifice of plain red brick, into 
a gorgeous monument of architecture. 

Plain red brick the walls ; the windows partly framed in stone ; the roof- 
eaves heavy with intricate carvings ; the hall door ornamented with pillars 
of dark stone ; such is the State House of Philadelphia, in this year of our 
Lord, 1776. 

Around tliis edifice stately trees arise. Yonder toward the dark walls of 
Walnut street gaol, spreads a pleasant lawn, enclosed by a plain board fence. 
Above our heads, these trees lock their massy limbs and spread their leafy 
canopy. 

There are walks here, too, not fashioned in squares and circles, but 
spreading in careless negligence along the lawn. Benches too, rude benches, 
on which repose the forms of old men with grey hairs, and women with 
babes in their arms. 

This is a beautiful day, and this a pleasant lawn : but why do those 
clusters of citizens, with anxious faces, gather round the Slate House walls? 
There is the Merchant in his velvet garb and ruffled shirt ; there the Me- 
chanic, with apron on his breast and tools in his hands ; there the bearded 
Sailor and the dark-robed Minister, all grouped together- 
Why this anxiety on every face ? This gathering in little groups all 
over the lawn ! 

Yet hold a moment ! In yonder wooden steeple, which crowns the red 
brick State House, stands an old man with white hair and sunburnt face. 
He is clad in humble attire, yet his eye gleams, as it is fixed upon the pon- 
derous outline of the bell, suspended in the steeple there. The old man 
tries to read the inscription on that bell, but cannot. Out upon the waves, 

(391) 



899 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

far away in the forests ; thus has his life been passed. lie is no scholar , 
he scarcely can spell one of those strange words carved on the surface of 
that bell. 

Uy his side, gazina; In his free — that sunburnt face — in wonder, stands a 
flaxen-haired boy, with laughing eyes of summer blue. 

" Come here, my boy ; you are a ricii man's child. You can read. 
Spell me those words, and I'll bless ye, my good child !" 

And the child raised itself on tip-loe and pressed its tiny hands against the 
bell, and read, in lisping tones, these memorable words : 

" Proclaim Liberty to all the Land and all the Inhaditants 

THEREOF." 

The old man ponders for a moment on those strange words ; then gath- 
ering the boy in his arms, he speaks, 

" Look here, my child ? Wilt do the old man a kindness ? Then haste 
you down stairs, and wait in the hall by the big door, umil a man shall give 
you a message for me. A man wiih a velvet dress and a kind face, will 
come out from the big door, and give you a word for me. When he gives 
you that word, then run out yonder in the street, and shout it up to me. 
Do you mind ?" 

It needed no second command. The boy with blue eyes and flaxen hair 
sprang from the old Bell-keeper's arms, and threaded his way down the dark 
stairs. 

The old Hell-kceper was alone. Many minutes passed. Leaning over 
the railing of the steeple, his face toward Chesnut street, he looked anxiously 
for that fair-haired boy. Moments passed, yet still he came not. The 
crowds gathered more darkly along the pavement and over the lawn, yet 
still tlie boy came not. 

" Ah J" groaned the old man, " he has forgotten me ! These old limbs 
will have to toller down the State House stairs, and climb up again, and all 
on account of that child "' 

As the word was on his lips, a merry, ringing laugh broke on the ear. 
There, among the crowds on the pavement, stood the blue-oycd boy, clap- 
ping his tiny hands, while the breeze blowed his flaxen hair all about his face. 

And then swelling his little chest, he raised himself on tip-toe, and shouted 
a single word — 

"Ring !" 

Do you see that old man's ^ye fire ? Do you see that arm so suddenly 
bared to the shoulder, do you see that withered hand, grasping the Iron 
Tongue of the Bell ? The old man is young again ; his veins are filled 
with new life. Backward and forward, with sturdy strokes, he swings the 
Tongue. The bell speaks out ! The crowd in the street hear il, and burst 
forth in one long shout! Old Delaware hears it, and gives it back in the 
hurrah of her thousand sailors. The city hears it, and starts up from desk 
and work-bench, as though an earthquake had spoken. 



THE DAY. 393 

Yet still while the sweat pours from his brow, that old Bell-keeper hurls 
the iron tongue, and still— boom — booai — boom — the Bell speaks to the city 
and the world. 

There is a terrible poetry in the sound of that State House B(;ll at dead 
of night, when striking its sullen and solemn — One !— It rouses crime from 
its task, mirth from its wine-cup, murder from its knife, bribery from its 
gold. Tiiere is a terrible poetry in ihnt sound. It speaks to ns like a voice 
from our youth— like a knell of God's judgjnent — like a solemn yet kind 
remembrancer of friends, now dead and gone. 

There is a terrible poetry in that sound at dead of night: but there was 
a day when the echo of that Bell awoke a world, slumbering in tyranny 
and crime ! 

Yes, as the old man swung the Iron Tongue, the Bell spoke to all the 
world. That sound crossed the Atlantic — pierced the dungeons of Europe 
— the work-sliops of England — the vassal-fields of France. 

That Echo spoke to the slave — bade him look from his toil — and know 
himself a man. 

That Echo startled the Kings upon their crumbling thrones. 

That Echo was the knell of King-craft, Priest-craft, and all other crafts 
born of the darkness of ages, and baptised in seas of blood. 

Yes, the voice of that little boy, who lifting himself on tip-toe, with his 
flaxen hair blowing in the breeze, shouted — " Iling!" — had a deep and 
awful meaning in its infant tones ! 

Why did tiiat word " Iling .'" — why did that Echo of the State House 
Bell speak such deep and awful meaning to the world ? What did that 
" Ring r' — the Echo of that Bell to do with the downfall of the Dishonest 
Priest or Traitor King ? 

Under that very Bell, pealing out at noonday, in an old hall, fifty-six 
traders, farmers and mechanics, had assembled to shake the shackles of the 
world. 

Now let us look in upon this band of plain men, met in such solemn 
council It is now half an hour previous to the moment when the Bell- 
Ringer responded to the shout of the fair-haired boy. 

This is an old hall. It is not so large as many a monarch's ante-room ; 
you might put a hundred like it within the walls of St. Peter's, and yet it 
is a fine old hall. The walls are concealed in dark oaken wainseotling, 
and there along the unclosed windows, the purple tapestry comes drooping 
down. 

The ornaments of this hall ? 

Over the head of that noble-browed man — John Hancock, who sits calm 
and serene in yonder chair — there is a banner, the Banner of the Stars. 
Perched on that Banner sits the Eagle with unfolded wings. (Is it not a 
precocious bird ? Born only last year on Bunker Hill, now it spreads iU 
wings, full-grown, over a whole Continent !) 



394 THE FOURTH OF Jl'LY. 1776. 

T,ook ovor the faces of these fifiy-six men, and see every eye turned to 
that door. There is silenrc in this hall — every voice is huslied — every face 
is stamped with a deep and awful rosponsibilily. 

Why turns every glance to that door, why is every face so solemn, why 
is it so terribly still ? 

The Committee of Three, who have been out all night, penning a Parch- 
ment, are about to appear. 

The Parehment, with the SisrnatiTres of these men, written with the pen 
lying on yonder t;>tiU", will cither make the world tree — or stretch these 
necks upon the gibbet, yonder in Poticr's-lield, or nail these heads to the 
door-posts of this hall ! 

That was the time for solemn faces and deep silence. 

At last, hark ! 'J"he door opens — the Commitlee appear. Who are 
these three men, who come walking on toward John Hancock's chair ? 

That tall man, with the sharp features, the bold brow and sand-hued hair, 
lioldinsj the Parchmknt in his hand, is the Virginia Farmer, Thomas Jeffer- 
son. The stout-built nian with resolute look and llashiiig eye ! Tiiat is a 
Boston man — one John Adams. And the calm-faced man, with hair droop- 
ing in thick curls to his shoulders — that man dressed in a plain coat, and 
such odious home-made blue stockings — that is the Philadelphia Printer, 
one Henjamin Fr.inkliii. 

The three advance to the table. The Parchment is laid there. Shall it 
be signed or not ? 

Then ensues a high and stormy debate — then the faint-hearted cringe in 
corners — while Thomas JctVcrson speaks out his lew bold words, and John 
Adams pours out his whole soul. 

Then the deep-toned voice of Richard Henry Lee is heard, swelling in 
syllables of tiiunder-like music. 

But still there is doubt — and that pale-faced man, shrinking in one corner, 
squeaks out something about axes, scaffolds, and a — gidbet ! 

•' Gibbet I" echoes a tierce, bold voice, that startles men from their seats, 
— and look yonder '. A tall slender man rises, dressed — although it is 
summer lime — in a dark robe. hook how his white hand undulates 
as it is stretched slowly out, how that dark eye burns, while his words ring 
through the hall. (We do not know his name, let us llterefore call his 
appeal) 

THE SPEECH OF THE UNKNOWN. 

'• Gibbet ? They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land — 
they may turn every rock into a scatVold — every tree into a gallows, every 
home into a grave, and yet the words on that Parchment can never die ! 

" They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every 
drop that dyes the axe, or drips on the sawdust of lite block, a new martyr 
to Freedom will spring into birth I 



TUB DAY. 303 

" The British King may blot out the Stars of God from Ilia sky, but lie 
cannot blot out His words written on tlio Parchment there ! The works 
of God may perish — His Word, never ! 

" These words will go I'orth to the world when our hones are dust. To 
the slave in the mines they will speak — Hope — to the mechanic in liis 
■workshop — Fiu-.kdom — to the coward-kings these words will speak, but not 
in tones of flattery ? No, no ! They will speak like the flaming syllables 
on IJelshazzar's wall — thk days of yoiik imiiuk and olory ark numhered ! 
The days of Judgment and l?i:voi,irri()N draw near ! 

" Yes, that Parciiment will speiik to the Kings in a language sad and 
terrible as the trump of the Archangel. You have trampled on mankind 
long enongli. At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God, 
and called His Judgment down ! You iiave waded on to thrones over 
seas of blood — you have trampled on to power over the necks of millions — 
you have turned the poor man's sweat and blood into robes for your delicate 
forms, into crowns for your anointed brows. Now Kings — now purpled 
Hangmen of the world — for you come the days of axes and gibbets and 
scaffolds — for you the wrath of man — for you the lightnings of God ! — 

" Look ! How tiie ligiit of your palaces on fire flashes up into the mid- 
night sky ! 

" Now Purpled Hangmen of the world — turn and beg for mercy ! 

" Where will you find it ? 

" Not from God, for you have blasphemed His laws I 

" Not from the People, for you stand baptized in their blood ! 

" Here you turn, and lo! a gibbet ! 

" There — and a scaftbld looks you in the face. 

" All around you — death — and nowhere |)ity ! 

" Now executioners of the human race, kneel down, yes, kneel down 
upon the sawdust of the scaffold — lay your perfumed heads upon the block 
■ — bless the axe as it falls — the axe that you sharpened for the poor man's 
neck ! 

" Such is the message of that neclarafion to Man, to tlie Kings of the 
world ! And shall we falter now ? And shall we start back appalled when 
our feet press tlie very ihreshhold of Freedom ? Do I see quailing faces 
around me, wlicn our wives have been butchered — when the liearthstones 
of our land are red with the blood of little children ? 

" What are these shrinking hearts and faltering voices here, when the very 
Dead of our battlefields arise, and call upon us to sign that Parchment, or 
be accursed forever ? 

" Sign ! if the next moment the gibbet's rope is round ynur neck ! Sion ! 
if the next moment this hall rings with the echo of the falling axe ! Sign '. 
By all your hopes in life or death, as husbands— as fathers— as men — sign 
your names to the Parchment or be accursed forever ! 

" Sign— and not only for yourselves, but for all ages. For that Parch- 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

ment will be ihe Text-book of Freedom— the Bible of ihe Rights of Man 
forever ! 

" Sign — lor that declaration will go forth to American hearts forever, and 
speak to those hearts like the voice of God ! And its work will not be 
doiu\ until throui;hoiit this wide Continent not a single inch of giround owna 
the sway of a liriiii^h King ! 

" Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise ! It is a truth, your own 
hearts witness it, (.iod proclaims it. — This Continent is tlie properly of a 
free people, aiul liioir property alone. Cod, I say, proclaims it ! Look at 
this stransje history of a band of exiles and outcasts, suddenly transformed 
into a Pkoplk — look at this wonderful Exodus of the oppressed of the Old 
World into the New, where they came, weak in arms but mighty in God- 
like faith — nay, look at this history of your Bunker Hill — your Lexington — 
Mhere a band of plain farmers mocked and trampled down the panoply of 
British arms, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not given America 
to tlie free ? 

" It is not given to our poor human intellect to climb the skies, to pierce 
the councils of the Almighty One. But methinks I stand among the awful 
clouds which veil the brightness of Jehovah's throne. Methinks I see the 
Kccording Angel — pale as an angel is pale, weeping as an angel can weep 
— come trembling up to that Tlirone, and speak his dread message — 

" ' Father ! the old world is baptized in blood ! Father, it is drenched 
with the blood of millions, butchered in war, in persecution, in slow and 
grinding oppression ! Father — look, with one glance of Thine Eternal eye, 
look over Europe, Asia, Africa, and behold evermore, that terrible sight, 
man trodden down beneath tlie oppressor's feet — nations lost in blooii — 
Murder and Superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of their 
victims, and not a single voice to whisper, ' Hope to Man T 

" He stands there, the Angel, his hands trembling with the black record 
of human guilt. But hark! The voice of Jehovah speaks out from the 
awful cloud — ' Let there be light again. Let there be a New World. Tell 
my people — the poor — the trodden down millions, to go out from the Old 
World. Tell them to go out from wrong, oppression and blood— tell them 
to go out from this Old World— to build my altar in the New !' 

" As God lives, mv friends, I believe that to be his voice ! Yes, were 
my soul trembling on the wing for Eternity, were this hand freezing in death, 
were this voice choking with the last struggle, I would still, with the last 
impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, with the last gasp of 
that voice, implore you to remember this truth — God has g^iren .■imerica to 
the free.' Yes, as I sank down into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with 
mv last gasp, I would beg you to sign that Parchment, in the name of the 
God, who made the Saviour who redeemed you — in the name of the rail- 
lions whose very breath is now hushed in intense expectation, as they look 
up to you for tlie awful words — ' You ark fkkk '.'' ' 



THE DAY. 397 

O, many years have gone since tliat lioiir— the Speaker, his brethren, all, 
have crumbled into chist, bnt it wonld require an angel's pen to picture the 
magic of that Speaker's look, the deep, terrible emphasis of his voice, the 
prophet-like beckoning of his hand, the magnetic flame vvhich shooting from 
his eyes, soon fired every heart througliout the hall ! 

He fell exhausted in his seat, but the work was done. A wild murmur 
thrills through the hall. — Sign ? Hah ? There is no doubt now. Look ! 
How they rush forward — stout-hearted John Hancock has scarcely time to 
sign his bold name, before the pen is grasped by another — another and 
another ! Look how the names blaze on the I'arclunent^Adams and Lee 
and JeHerson and Carroll, and now, Roger Sherman the Shoemaker. 

And here comes good old Stephen Hopkins — yes, trembling with palsy, 
he totters forward — quivering from head to foot, with his shaking hands he 
seizes the pen, he scratches his palriot-name. 

Then comrs Benjamin Franklin the Printer, and now the tall man in the 
dark robe advances, the man who made the fiery speech a moment ago — 
with the same hand that but now waved in such fiery scorn he writes his 
name.* 

And now the Parchment is .signed ; and now let word go forth to the 
People in the streets — to the homes of America — to the camp of Mister 
Washington, and the Palace of George the Idiot-King — let word go out to 
all the earth — 

And, old inan in the steeple, now bare your arm, and grasp the Iron 
Tongue, and let the bell speak out the great truth : 

Fifty-six Traders and Farmers and Mechanics have this dav shook 

THE shackles of THE WoRLD ! 

Hark ! Hark to the toll of that Bell ! 

Is there not a deep poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime than 
Shakspeare or Milton ? 

Is there not a music in the sound, that reminds you of those awful tones 
which broke from angel-lips, when the news of tlie child of Jesus burst on 
the Shepherds of Bethlehem ? 

For that Bell now speaks out to the world, that — 

God has given the American Continent to the free — the toiling 

MILLIONS of the HUMAN RACE AS THE LAST ALTAR OF THE RltillTS OF MAN 

ON THE GLOBE THE HOSIE OF THE OPPRESSED, FOREVERMORE ! 

Let US search for the origin of the great truth, which that bell proclaimed, 
let us behold the great Apostle who first proclaimed on our shores, all 

MEN ARE ALIKE THE CHILDREN OF GoD. < 

* The name of llic Orator, who made (he last eloquent appeal before the Signing 
of the Declaration, is not dclinilely known. In ihis speech, it is my wish lo com- 
press some porfioii of the fiery eIo(pience of the time ; to embody in abrupt senicnces, 
the very spirit of the Fourth of July, 17Tii. 

48 



398 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 



11, -THE APOSTLE TO THE NEW WORLD. 

We are with ihe Past again. 

Yes, we arc yoiulor — far over the Ocean of Time, where the Ages like 
Islands of etcrnni granite, rear their awful forms. 

At tliis hour on tiie sliores of the Dehiware, just where tlie glorious river 
ricii with the tribute of mountain and valley, widens into a magniliocnt bay, 
at this hour along yonder shore, on liie slope of a gentle ascent blooms a 
fair village, whose white houses rise in the summer air from among gardens 
and trees. Away from this hamlet spreads fields, golden with wheat, or 
emerald green with Indian corn ; awny among these fields rank marshes 
wind here and there, in all the luxuriance of their untamed verdure ; away 
and away from marsh, and field, and coast, and bay, green woods arise, llieir 
thick foliage sweeping into the summer sky. 

A pleasant village, a glorious country, a green island, and a lordly bay. 

Such it is now. But we will back into the past. We will wander into 
the shadows of .iges. We will stand face to face with the dead. 

There was a day when no village bloomed along this coast, nor white- 
walled farm-house arose from among the orchard trees. There was a day 
when standing on this gende ascent, you might look Ibrth, and lo ! the 
waves were dashing to your feet. Yonder is the green aisle, yonder far 
away-, die dim line of land which marks the opposite shore of the bay, and 
there, heaving, and glistening, and roaring, the wide waters melt by slow 
degrees into the cloudy sky. 

Look to the south ! You behold the level co.ist — white sand mingled 
with green reeds — the wide-spreading marsh — the thick woods, glorious 
with oak, and beech, and chcsnut, and maple. Enclosed in die arms of the 
green shore, the bay rolls yonder, a basin of tumultuous waves. 

It is noon : above your head you behold the leaden sky. It is noon, and 
lo ! from the broad green of yonder marsh a p.ile column of blue smoke 
winds lip into the clouds. It is noon, and hark ! A shrill, piercing, his- 
sing sound — a footstep — a form ! A red man rushes from yonder covert, 
bow in hand, while the stricken deer with one proud bound, falls dead at 
liis feet. 

A column of blue smoke from the marsh — an arrow hissing through the 
air — a red man's form and a wounded deer ? What does all this mean ? 
Where are we now ? 

Hist ! ray friend, for we are now in Indian land. Hist I for we are now 
far back among the shadows of two hundred years. 

Yel "we will watch the motions of this Red Man. He stoops with his 
hatchet of tlint upraised, he stoops to inflict die last blow on the writhing 
deer, when his eye wanders along the surface of the bay. The hatchet 



THE APOSTLE TO THE NEW WORLD. 399 

drops from his hand — he stands erect, with parted lips and starling eyes, 
his hands half-raised, in a gesture of deep wonder. 

He stimds on tiiis (roiillc ascent, tiie waves breaking at his feet, tlic proud 
maple sprcadinfT its leaves overhead. lie stands there, an Apollo, HUf.h as 
the Grecian artist never sculptured in his wildest dream, an Apollo fashioned 
by the Living God, with a broad chest, faultless limbs, qnivering nostrils, 
and a flashing eye. No robes of rank upon that tawny breast, ah, no ! A 
single fold of panther's hide aroun<l the loins, graces without concealing, the 
proportions of his faultless hnibs. 

'J'ell us — why stands the lone Indian on this Delaware shore, gazing in 
mute wonder across the sweep of yonder niagniricent bay. 

Look, yes, far over the waters look ! What see you there? The bay, 
its waves plumed with snowy foam : yes, the rolling, dashing, panting bay, 
rushing from the horizon to the shore. Look again, rude Red Man ;• what 
see you now ? 

The Red Man cannot tell his thoughts ; his breast lieavcs ; he trembles 
from head to foot. 

Strange — yes, terrible spectacle! 

A white speck gleams yonder on the horizon ; it tosses into view, on tliat 
dim line where waves meet the sky. It enlarges, it sj)reads, it comes on 
gloriously over the waters ! 

The Red Man standing beneath the giant maple, chilled to liis rude heart 
with a strange awe. 

That white speck is dim and distant no longer. It is nearer now. It 
spreads forth huge wings of snow-white ; it displays a massive body of jet- 
black ; it comes on, this sUange wondrous thing, tearing the waves with its 
beak. Beak ? Yes, for it is a bird, a mighty bird, sent by Manillo from 
tlie Spirit-Land, sent to save or to destroy ! 

Gloriously over the bay it comes. Larger and larger yet it grows. 
White and beautiful spread its fluttering wings over the dark waters. 

The Red Man sinks aghast. He prays. Hy the rustling in the leaves, 
by the voice of his own heart, he knows that Manitto hears his prayer. 
The White Bird comes for good ! 

Leaving the rude Indian to gaze upon the sight of wonder with his own 
eyes, let us also look upon it with ours. 

A noble ship, dashing with wide-spread sails over the waters of the Dela- 
ware Bay ! Such is the sight which two hundred years ago, excited the 
wonder and awe of the rude Indian, who never beheld ship or sail before. 
Ship and sail had tossed and whitened along this bay full many a time be- 
fore, but the Indian dwelhng in the fastnesses of impenetrable swamps, had 
never laid eyes upon this wondrous sight until this hour. 

It is near the Indian now. It comes dashing over the waters toward the 
Island, triumphing over the waves, which roar and foam in its path. Look ! 
you can see the people on its deck, the sailors among its white wmgs. 



'4W THE FOURTH OF JliLY, 1776. 

And now the anchor is cast overboard ; there is the rude chant of the 
sailor's song ; and a boat comes speeding over the waters, urged along by 
sinewy arms. 

Yes, while tlie noble ship rides at anchor, under the shelter of yonder 
isle, that small boat comes tossing over the waters. It nears the spot 
where lite Indian stands ; he can see the bearded laces and stran^'e costume 
of the sailors, he can see that Form standing erect in the prow of the boat. 

That Form standing there under the leaden sky. with the uncovered 
brow, bared to breeze and spray ! Is it the form of a spirit sent by Manil- 
to ? Tlie Indian sees that form — that face ! He kneels — yes, beneath the 
maple tree, by tlie bleeding deer, tomahawk in hand he kneels, gazing with 
fixed eyes upon that fac«. As the boat comes near let us look upon that 
face, that form. 

A man in the prime of life, with the flush of manhood upon his cheek, 
its lire in his eye, attired in a brown garb, plain to rudeness, stands in the 
prow of the boat, as it comes dashing on. 

And yet that ^Man is the .\posru: of the Living God to the New 
World. 

Yes, on a mission as mighty as that of Paul, he conies. Ilis coat is 
plain, but underneath that plain coat l>eats a heart, immortal with the pul- 
sations of a love that grasps at all the human race. 

He is an Apostle, and yet his eyes are not hollow, his cheeks not gaunt 
and cadaverous, his hair not even changed to grey. An Apostle with a 
young countenance, a clear blue eye, a cheek flushed with rose-bud hues, 
a broad brow shadowed by light brown hair, a mouth whose red lips curve 
■with a smile of angellike love. 

.\n Apostle with a manly tbrm, massive chest, broad shoulders, and bear- 
ing far beyond the majesty of kings. 

He stands in the prow, his blue eye flashing as the boat nears land. 
Splash, splash^-do you hear the oars f Hurrah — hurrah ! How the 
waves shout as they break upon the beach. 

The boat comes on, nearer and nearer. A swelling wave dashes over 
the dying deer, whilst the spray-drops wet the face of tlie kneeling Indian. 

The keel grates the sand. 

For a moment that man with the fair countenance and chesnut hair, 
stands in the prow of the boat, his blue eyes upraised to God. For a mo- 
ment he stands there, and behold ! The clouds are severed yonder. A 
gush of sunshine pours through their parting folds, and illumines the 
Apostle's brow. lu tliat li^hi he looks divine. 

Say through those parting clouds, cannot you see the face of the Saviour 
bending down, and smiUng eternal love upon his AposUe's brow .' 

For a moment the .-Vposile stood there, and then — with no weapon by his 
side, nor knife, nor pistol, nor powder-horn — but with love beaming from 
his brow, that man stepped gently on the sand. 



THE APOSTLE TO THE NEW WORLD. 40I 

The Indian looked up and saw that face, and was not afraid. Love, 
gentleness, God — these were written on tiiat face. 

Was it not a beautiful scene ? 

The kneeling Indian, his knife sunken in the earth, the dying deer by 
his side, looks up with a loving awe gleaming from his red face. The 
Apostle standing there upon that patch of sod, the surf breaking round his 
feet, the sunlight bursting on iiis brow. The bearded sailors, their faces 
hushed with deep awe ; while their oars hang suspended in mid-air. — On 
one side the leafy maple— on the other the river, the ship, the island, and 
the wide extending bay. 

And then the blue sky, looking out from amid a wilderness of floating 
clouds, as thougii God himself smiled down his blessing on the scene. 

That was the picture, my friends, and O, by all the memories of Home 
and Freedom, paint that picture in your liearts. 

Columbus, with his eye fixed on land — the land of the New World — 
Pizarro gazing on the riches of Peru, Cortcz with the Temples of Monte- 
zuma at his feet — these are mighty pictures, but here was a mightier than 
them all. 

Mighter than that historic image of Columbus gazing for the first time 
on land ? Yes ! For Columbus but discovered a New World, while this 
Apostle first planted on its shores the seed of a mighty tree, whicii had lain 
buried for sixteen hundred years, beneath an .ocean of blood. 

The shade of that tree is now cast abroad, far over this Continent, far 
over the World. That tree was called Toleration. In the day of its 
planting, it was a strange thing. The Nations feared it. But now watered 
by God it grows, and on its golden fruit you may read these words : 

" Every man hath a right to worsiiu' God after the dictates of 
His own conscience." 

For a moment, spell-bound, the Indian looked up into the Apostle's face. 
Then that Aposde slowly advancing over the sod, beneath the shade of the 
Maple tree, clasped him by the hand, and called him Brother ! 

Soon a fire flamed there upon the sod. Soon columns of blue smoke 
wound upward, in the thick green leaves of the Maple tree. 

Roar O, surf! roll ye clouds! beam O, sun! For now beneath the 
Maple tree, on the shores of the Delaware, the Apostle in the plain garb 
siiares the venison and corn of the rude Indian, sits by his side, while the 
red woman stealing from the shadows, prepares the pipe of peace, as her 
large dark eyes are fixed upon that n^anly face. 

Around scattered over the sod, were grouped the stout forms of the 
sailors. In the distance the ship, Ij" e a giant bird, tossed slowly on the 
waves. The summer breeze bent t/ reeds upon the green isle, and played 
among the leaves of the Maple tree, '"^he sky above was clear, the last 



409 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

cloud huge and snowy, lay piled away, between the water and the sky, on 
tlie distant horizon. 

It was a calm hour. 

The Pipe of Peace was lighted — its smoke arose, curling around the 
beaming face of the Apostle, while the red man looked upon him in rude 
love, and the woman, her form thrown carelessly on tlie sod, her long hair 
showering in glossy blackness to her waist, gazed in his blue eyes wiilj a 
mute reverence, as thougli she beheld the Messenger of God. 

That Apostle built a Nation without a Priest, without an Oath, without a 
Blow. Yet he never wronged the poor Indian.* 

Tliat Apostle reared the .\ltar of Jesus, on the Delaware shore, and 
planted the foundations of a Mighty People, amid dim old forests. Yet he 
never wronged the poor Indian. ' 

He died, with his pillow smoothed by the blessings of the rude Indian 
race. To this hour the Indian Mother, driven (ar beyond the Mississippi, 
driven even from the memory of the Delaware, takes her wild boy upon 
her knee, and tells him the wild tradition of ilie Good Micii'on. 

IMy friends, wlien I think of tills great man who in a dark age, preached 
ToLER.\TioN, or in other words, the Love of Jesus, a dream rushes upon 
my soul. 

One night in a dream, I beheld a colossal rock, a mountain of granite, 
rising from illimitable darkness into bright sunshine. Around its base was 
midnight ; half-way up was twdight ; on the very summit shone the light of 
God's countenance. 

A voice whispered — This awful rock, built upon midnight, girdled by 
twilight, with the light of God's face shining upon its brow, this awful rock 
is The History of the World. 

Far down in blackest midnight, I beheld certain lurid, horrible shapes, 
going wildly to and fro. Tiiese, said the voice, these are the butchers of 
the human race, called Conqi'f.rors. 

Half-way up in the dim twilight, a multitude of Popes, Reformers, Pre- 
tended Prophets and Fanatics, were groping their way with stumbling foot- 
steps, darkness below and twilishl around tiiem. These, said the voice, are 
the numerous race of C'reed-jMakers, who murder millions in the name 
of God. 

But far up this terrible rock, — yes, yonder in the eternal sunshine, which 



Note. — II is stntcd, (whether by history or by tradition only I am not informed.) 
that William Penn tirst put his foot oii New World soil, on the shore opposite Reedy 
Island, at the head of Delaware I?:ty, where now stands and Hourishes the pleasant 
village of Port Penn. From this legend of Willian> Penn, »ve will pass to the life 
of his Divine Master, who tirst asserted the truth which the Declaration of la. 
dependence promulgated, after a lapse of eighteen hundred years — "all mes ibi 

ALIKE THE CUILDREX OF GoO." 



I 



"BACK EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS." 403 

broke upon the highest point of its summit, side by side with Saint Paul, 
and the Apostles, stood a commanding form, clad in an unpretending garb, 
with a mild glory playing over his brow ; that form, the Apostle of God to 
the New World, William Penn. 



Ill —"BACK EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS:" 

Ere we come down to the days of the Revolution, let us go on a journey 
into a far country and a long past age. 

Kings and Priests have asked us, from whence do you derive the princi- 
ple — All men in the siglit of (!od arc equal — from wiiat work of philoso- 
phy, from what dogma of musty parchments, or thesis of monkish schools. 
From none of these ! We go higher, for the origin of the noble words 
contained in the Declaration of Independence, even to the foot of that 
Judean mount, which one day beheld a universe in mourning for the crimes 
of ages. 

We pass by our Iftngs and Priests ; we leave behind us the long column 
of crowned robbers, and anointed hypocrites ; to the altar wliere the light 
burns, and the truth shines forever, we hasten, with bended head and rev- 
erent eyes. 

Come with me to a far distant age. 

There was a day when the summer sun shone from the centre of the 
deep blue sky, in the far eastern clime. 
It was the hour of liigh noon. 

Come with me — yes — while the noonday sun is pouring his fierce rays 
over the broad landscape, let us for a moment turn aside into the deep woods 
— the deep green woods, not far from yonder town. 
What see you here ? 

Here sheltered from the rays of the sun by a thick canopy of leaves, a 
quiet stream stretches away into tiie dim woods. 

Is it not beautiful ? The water so deep, so clear — trembling gendy 
along its shores, fragrant with myrde — the thick canopy of leaves overhead 
— tlie white lilies on yonder bank, dipping gendy into the still waves ! 

There is the balm of summer flowers, the stillness of noonday, the tran- 
quil beauty of calm waters and stout forest trees — all are here ! 

And look yonder ! '1 here, under the boughs of that spreading cedar, i 
fountain of dark stone breaks on your eye. 

It is but a pile of dark stone, and yet, cool water, trickling from the rock 
above, shines and glimmers there — and yet, hanging from the boughs of 
that giant cedar, thick clusters of grapes dip into the waters of that spring, 

and lo ! a single long gleam of sunlight streams through the thick boughs 

upon the cold water, and the purple grapes. 

Is it not a beautiful picture, ncsding away here in dim woods, while the 
noonday sun pours its fierce rays over hill and valley, far along the land ? ■ 



IM THE FOl'RTH OF JULY, 1776. 

And yet we mnst leave this scene of quiet beauty, for the hot air and the 
burning sun. 

Look there, at the foot of yonder giant cedar, beside the fountain, mur- 
nuiriiig such low music ou the air, look yonder and behold a path winding 
up, into the still woods. 

We will follow that path, up and on with tired steps we go, we leave the 
woods, we stand in the open air under the burning sun. 

There, not a hundred paces from our feet, the white walls of a quiet town 
break into the deep blue of the summer sky. 

Come with me, to that town ; over the hot dust of the flinty road, come 
with nie ! 

Let us on through the still streets — for the heat is so intense that the 
rich and the proud have retired to their homes — nay, even the poor have 
fallen exhausted at their labor. Let us on ; without pausing to look in upon 
that garden, adorned \vith temples, musical with fountains, with the rich 
man reclining on his bed of flowers. — 

Let us not even pause to look in through the doors of yonder gorgeous 
temple, where pompous men in glittering robes, and long beards are mumbling 
over their drowsy prayers. 

Here we are in the still streets — still as midnight, even at broad noon — 
and around us rise the white walls of rich men's mansions, and the glitter- 
ing dome of tlie synagogue. 

Let us ask the name of this town ! T-et us ask yonder solitary man, who 
with his hands folded among his robes of fine linen, his long beard sweep- 
ing his breast — his calm self-complacent brow is striding haughtily along the 
deserted streets. 

"Tell us good sir. the name of this town !" That richly clad way-farer 
answers one question with a haughty scowl, and passes on. 

You perceive that man is too holy to answer the question of sinful men 
— his robe is too rich, his phylacterj' too broad — his knowledge of the law 
too great to speak to men of common garb. That is a holy man, a Phari- 
see. 

And this town is the town of Nazareth ; and we stand here tired and 
fainting in the dustv streets ; with the drowsy prayers from that synagogue, 
the music of rich men's fountains breaking on our heavy ears. 

But hark 1 The deep silence of this noonday hour is broken by sharp, 
quick sound — the clink of a hammer, the grating of a saw ! 

Let us follow that sound ! 

Look there, between those two massive domes of rich men, there, as if 
crouching away from the hot sun, in the thick shadow, nestles the rude hut 
of a Carpenter. Yes, the rude hut of a Carpenter, with the sound of ham- 
mer and saw, echoing from that solitary window. 

We approach that window — we look in ! What is the strange sight 
we see ? 



"BACK EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS." 405 

Strange sight ? Call you iliis a strange sight, when it is nothing more 

than a young man, clad in llie laborer's garments, llie laborer's sweat upon 
his brow, bending down to his labor, amid piles of timber and unhewn 
boards Call you tliis a strange sight ? 

Why it is but a sight of every day life — a common sight, a familiar tliincr, 
a dull, every day fact. 

But hold a moment, 

Look as that young man raises his head, and wipes the thick drops from 
his brow — look upon that face ! Look tliere, and forget the Carpenter's 
shop, the boards, the hammer, llic saw, nay, even the rough laborer's dress. 

It is is a young face — the face of a boy — t)ut O, the calm beauty of that 
hair, flowing to the slioulders in waving locks — mingling in its hues, the 
purple of twilight with the darkness of midnight — O, the deep thou<rlit of 
those large, full eyes, O, the calm radiance of that youthful brow ! 

Ah, that is a face to look upon and love — and kneel — and worship — even 
though the form is clad in the rough carpenter's dress. Those eyes, how 
deep they gleam, more beautiful than the stars at dead of night ; that brow, 
liow awfully it brightens into the Majesty of God ! 

And now, as you are looking through the window — hold your breath as 
you look — do not, O, do not disturb the silence of this scene ! 

As that boy — that apprentice boy — stands there, with a saw in one hand, 
the other laid on a pile of boards — a strange thought comes over his soul ! 

He is thinking of his brothers — the Brotherhood of Toil ! That vast 
family, who now swelter in dark mines, bend in the fields, under the hot 
sun, or toil, toil, toil on, toil forever in the AVorkshops of the World. 

He is thinking of his brothers in the huts and dens of cities ; sweltering 
in rags and misery and diseare. O, he is thinking of the Workmen of the 
World, the Mechanics of the earth, whose dark lot has been ever and yet 
ever — to dig that others may sleep — to sow that others may reap — to coin 
their groans and sweat and blood, into gold for the rich man's chest, into 
purple robes for his forjn and crowns for his brow. Tliis had been the fate 
of the iMechanic — the Poor man from immemorial ages ! 

Never in all the dark history of man, had the Mechanic once looked from 
his toil — his very heart had always beat to that dull sound — Toil — Toil — 
Toil! 

Never since the day when Jehovah gave the word, " By the sweat of thy 
brow thou shalt live !" never had that Great Army of Mechanics once looked 
up, or felt the free blood dance in their veins. 

By the sweat of the brow ? Was it thus the Poor man was to live ? And 
how had he lived for four thousand years ? 

Not only by the sweat of his brow, but the blood of his heart, the groans 

of his soul. 

. This had been the fate of the Mechanic — the Poor Man, for four thousand 

years, 

49 



406 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

And now, that Young Carpen(er stood there, in the Carpenter's shop of 
Nazareth, thinking over the wrongs of llie Poor, his brothers, his sisters, 
THE Poor ! 

At that moment, as if a flood of light from the throne of God, had ponred 
down into iiis soul, that young Mechanic stood there, witii an awlul hght 
hovering over his brow. 

At that moment he felt the Godhead fdl his veins — at that moment he 
stood there a God. Yes, a God in a Mechanic's gaberdine ; with carpen- 
ter's tools in his hand. 

At that moment he felt the full force of his mission on earth ; yes, stand- 
ing there, his brow gleaming, his eyes flashing with Eternal light, Jesus the 
Carpenter of Nazaretii, resolved to redress the wrongs of the Poor. 

And as he stands there, behold. A mildly beautiful woman, steals from 
yonder door, and pauses on tip-toe at the very shoulder of the young man ; 
lierself unseen, she stands with hands half-raised, gazing upon her son, with 
her large full eyes. 

That mildly beautiful woman is Mary the Virgin-.Motiier. 

Is it not a picture full of deep meaning ? There stands the Bride of 

the Living God, gazing upon that young Carpenter, whose body is hu7nan — 
tvhose soul is very God.' 

From that moment, these words became linked in one — Jescs and Man. 

Yes, follow the Blessed Nazarene over the dust of the highway, heboid 
him speaking hope to the desolate, health to liie sick, lii'e to the dead, eter- 
nal life to the Poor ! Last night he had his couch on yonder mountain-top 
.—to-night he shares yon poor crust ; lo-inorrow he goes on his way again ; 
his mission still the Redemption of the Poor. 

Does he share the rich man's banquet or the rich man's couch ? Is he 
found wailing by rich men's elbows, speaking soft things to their drowsy 
souls ! Ah, no ! Ah, no ! 

For the rich, the proud, the oppressor, his brow darkens with wrath, his 
tongue drops biting scorn. 

But to the Poor — to his poor. Ah, how that mild face looks in upon 
their homes, speaking within dark huts, great words, which shall never die ; 
ah, how the poor love him ; their Apostle, their Redeemer, more than all, 
their brother. 

Follow him tliere by the pool of Siloam — look ! A man clad in a faded 
garb, with long hair sweeping down his face, — that face covered with sweat 
and dust — stamped with the ineffable Godhead — goes there by the waves 
of dark Galilee — communes there at night with his soul — speaks to the stars 
which he first spake into being ! 

Or far down in the shades of Gelhsemane, there he kneels pleading, with 
bloody drops upon his brow, for his brothers, his sisters Ihe poor — 

Or yonder on that grim heightii frowning over Jerusalem, nailed to the 
Cross in scorn — pain, intense pain quivering through his racked sinews — 






THE WILDERNESS. 407 

MnoJ dripping from his hands and from his thorn-crowned brow — looic 
there, at the moment when it is made his fierce trial, to doubt iiis Divine 
Mission ! 

Look as the Awful Godhead is strusruling with his human nature. Hark 
to that groan going up to God, from that Man of Nazareth, stretched there 
upon the cross ! 

"ElOI ElOI LAMA SaBACTIIANI !" 

My God ! My God ! Wtiy hast lliou forsaken me ! 

I could bear the scorn of these High Priests ; I could hear this cross ; 
these bloody hands, this streaming brow ! 

Nay, I could bear that very People, whose sick I have healed, whose 
dead I have raised, the very People, who yesterday strewing palm branches 
in my way, shouted Hosannah to my name ; 1 could bear that these People 
— these brothers of my soul — should have been the first to shriek — Crucify 
him. Crucify him. 

But Thou O God — Why hast thou forsaken me ! 

Ah, was not that a dark hour, when the Man of Nazareth doubted his mis- 
sion to the Poor, to Man — when God in human flesh doul)ted his Divinity ? 

And why this life of Toil — this bloody sweat in Gethsemanc — this awful 
scene — these bloody hands, this thorn-crowned brow — this terrible Doubt 
on Calvary ? 

Was it only to root the Kings more firmly on their thrones — to grind the- 
faces of the poor yet deeper in the dust ! 

No ! No ! The bloody sweat of Gethsemane — the groans of Calvary — 
the soul of Jesus answers no ! no ! no ! 

Yes, to-day from that Carpenter's shop in Nazareth, a Voice speaks out 
to the workshops of the world — that voice speaks to Toil — yes, to dusty, 
tired, half-dad, starving Toil — that voice speaks, and says, — " Look up 

BKOTILER, for THE DAY OF YOUR REDEMPTION DRAWETH NEAR!" 

Ere we survey the result of this great mission of the Saviour, its action 
\ipon Man, after the lapse of eighteen hundred years, we will behold two 
scenes in his life, and learn the solemn lesson which they teach. 

v.— THE WILDERNESS. 

The Wilderness, dark and vast, illumined by the faint light of the break- 
ing dawn ! 

It is a wild place, this broken plain, gloomy by day, terrible by night ; 
ghostly when the cold moonbeam shines over these rugged rocks. On 
every side, from the barren earth, rude shapes of granite rock, struggle into 
the dim light of morning. Here are grand old trees, towering aloft, strong 
with the growth of ages, their colossal trunks looming through the mists of 
the dawn, like the columns of some heathen temple, made unholy by the 
rites of bloody sacrifice. 



408 THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 

Il 13 the early dawn, ami yonder beyond Ihis dreary plain, ni^^ed wiih 
scatlercd masses of antediluvian rorU, yonder l)eyond those aged trees, the 
oaks grouped in a venerable circle, the palm rising in solitary magnificence, 
we behold a gloomy waste of dark water, heaving sullenly in the first beam 
of the day. 

Ah, that waste of dark water is invested with a fearful gloom ; silence 
deeper than the grave broods over its impenetrable deep, like a raven over 
the breast of the dead. Here and there, along the black shores, are scat- 
tered dismal trees, stunted in their growth, blasted by lightning, withered ia 
trunk and branch, as willi the weariness of long ages. Here and there, 
from the edge of its sullen waters, huge masses of dark rock niise, their 
fantastic shapes presenting images of hideous meaning, some rising like 
fiibled demons, some like beasts of prey, some like men, transformed by 
infernal passions, into monuments of despair. 

Altogether this dread, dark lake, this silent wilderness, strikes your heart 
with a strange awe. 

Let us seat ourselves upon this rude stone, and see the morning come 
on, in solitary grandeur. Let us behold those snowy mists moving slowly 
over the dark waters, like spirits of the blest over shades of unutterable 
woe. Hark — a sound, harsh, crashing, and loud as thunder. In a moment 
it is gone. It was but the last groan of an aged Oak, which, eaten by the 
tooth of ages, has fallen with one sudden plunge into the waters of the 
lake. All is silent again, but such a silence — 0, it chills the blood to dwell 
in this place of shadows ! 

Tell us, do fair forms ever visit these gloomy wastes, do the voices of 
home ever break in upon tliis heavy air, do kind faces ever beam upon these 
nigged rocks ? Tell us, does anything wearing the form of man ever press 
this barren earth with a footstep ? 

The raven croaking from the limb of a blasted tree, the wolf, gaunt and 
grim, stealing from his cave by the waters, the hyena howling his unearthly 
laugh, these all may be here, but man — why should he ever dare this soli- 
tude, more terrible than the war of batdc .' 

AVell may this place seem terrible by day, ghostly by night, blasted, as 
with the judgment of God at all times ! For yonder beneath those dark 
waters, heaving with sullen surges on the blackened shore lies entombed 
in perpetual judgment, the Cities of the Plain! 

Yes, there beneath those waves are mansions, streets, gardens, temples 
and domes, all crowded witli people, all thronged with a silent multidude, 
who stand in the doors, or throng the pathways, or kneel in the halls of 
worship, ghostly skeleton people, who never speak, nor move, nor breathe, 
but they are there, deep beneath the bituminous waves, petritied monumciiis 
of Almighty vengeance. The cities of the Plain are there, Sodom and 
Gomorrah. 

Therefore is this desert so sUent, so breathlesly desolate ; therefore does 



THE WILDERNESS. 4Q9 

the cry of yoiulor raven, washing his plumage in the dark waters, come 
over the waste, like the knell of a lost world. 

We are in the desert, and tiic lake before us, is tiie Dead Sea. 

Yet hold — there is a footstep breaking upon the silence of the desert air. 

liO ! From behind yonder granite rock, a form comes slowly into view, 
a form rounded with the outlines of early manhood, attired in the rude 
gaberdine of toil. 

Who is he that comes slowly on, with gently-folded arms and downcast 
head, framed in the curling beard and (lowing iiair ? 

Let us look well upon him ! 

He wears the garb of labor ; his feet from which the worn sandals have 
fallen away, are wounded by the desert flint. Slowly he comes, his head 
upon his breast, his eyes fixed on the earth. Yet we may see that his 
form combines in one view, all that is graceful in outline, or manly in vigor, 
or beautiful in gesture. 

Hold — and gaze ! For he lifts his head. 

Ah why do we desire to kneel — to love — to worship him, this man in 
the rude garb ? Why do our eyes seek that face with a glance of deep and 
absorbing interest? Why do broken ejaculations bubble from our full 
hearts, while our souls, all at once, seem lifted beyond these houses of 
clay ? 

Look upon that face and find your answer. 

O, the rapture of that calm white brow, O, the speechless love of those 
large f}ill eyes, O, the eloquence of those gontl_v-parted lips ! It is a young 
face, with flowing hair, and curling beard, whose hues combine the dark- 
ness of midnight, the rich purple of a summer's eve, while the brow is 
clear as alabaster, the eyes dark with that excess of melting radiance. That 
face touches your inmost soul. 

Let us kneel, let us worship here, for the Carpenter of Nazareth comes 
near us, clad in the garments of toil, yet with the Godhead beaming serenely 
from his radiant brow. 

Here, in this desert he has wandered forty days and forty nights. Not 
a crust has passed those lips, not a cup of waler moistened that throat, 
whose beautiful outline is seen above the collar of his coarse garb. 

Here he has dwelt for forty days companioned by day with silence, by 
night with the stars, at all limes by an Aluiiglily presence, shining unutter- 
able images of beauty into his soul. 

Ah, in this time, his heart has throbbed for man ; yes, in the workshop 
degraded by oppression in the mine, burdened by the chain, in the field with 
the hot sun pouring over his brow, still Man his lirother! 

Yes — beneath the calm light of (he stars, amid the silence of noonday, 
at twilight, when the long shadows of the palms, rested upon the bosom of 
the Dead Sea, has his great mission come home to his soul, calling him 
with its awful voice, to go forth and free his brother ! 



410 THE FOl'RTir OF JULY, ITTo. 

Ami tlie srrrnc moon, i^liinini; from tlic sky of impenetrable blue, has 
oftonliines rcvealoii liial rarnest fare stampeil with iimitlprable llioiiglits, 
liflcil lip to Goit, glowinsr ah-eaily wiih a consciousness of the dim fuiiire. 

O, my friends, wlieu I follow this pnre Heinaf on his desert waj-, and 
mark his tears as they fall for the sorrows of Alan, and listen to liis sighs, 
as his licart beats with warm pulsations for the slave of toil, or see him 
standing on yonder clifl", his form rising in the moonbeams, as he stretches 
forth his hands to the sky and whispers an earnest prayer to God, for the 
Millions of the luinian race, who have been made the sport of I'riest and 

King, for a dreary length of ages ithcn I feel my heart also warm, with 

Ilope^lhat the Tlay is near, wlien Labor shall bless the whole earth, when 
Man shall indeed be free ! 

This Jesus of Nazareth, dwelling for forty days and nights, alone with 
his Sonl, has ever for me, a calm, divine beauty. 

But to ! he hungers, he thirsts at last. \Vhere shall he lind bread or 
water ? Not from these rocks, covered with rank moss, shall grow the 
bread that nourishes, not from the dead wave of yonder sea, shall the bent 
palm-leaf be filled with pure water. 

Jesus hungers, thirsts ; the hot sky is above, the arid earth below. But 
neiliier bread nor water meet his gaze. 

At this moment, hark ! A footstep is heard, and a man of roval pre- 
sence, chad in purple robes, glistening with gems and gold, and contrasted 
with the snowy whiteness of line linen, comes striding into view, with the 
air of majesty and worldly power. His ruddy countenance blushes with 
the genial glow of the grape ; his eyes sparkle with the fire of sensual 
passion ; his dark hair curls around a brow, which lofty and massive, is 
stamped with that cunning, which among ilie people of this world, often 
passes for Intellect. 

In fiict, he stands before us the inpersonation of Worldly Power, a goodly 
looking man widial, whom it were policy and prudence to bow down and 
reveriMicc. 

AVith his sandalled feet, glittering with diamonds that gleam as he walks, 
he comes on : he stands before the hiimbiy-i-lad Jesus. At a glance, he 
reads tlie light of Godhead on that brow, he feels the immeasurable power 
of those earnest eves. 

Come '. he cries, taking Jesus of Nazareth by the hand, come ! And 
the desert is passed, and rocks are gone, and the Dead sea has faded from 
the view. Come ! repeats the Prince of this World, and as he speaks, 
behold ! A mountain swells before them, towering above the plain, green 
wiUi the venerable cedars and grey with colossal rocks. 

Come ! re-echoes the Prince, and up the steep mountain paths, and 
through the deep mountain shadows, and along the dark mountain mvints, 
ttiey hurry on. Now ihey are in tlte clouds, now llie uiisis of ilie suuiok 
g:»il'.cr ihcm in. 



THE WILDERNESS. 4U 

At last, upon this rock, projecting over an awful abyss, they staiul, Josus 
of Nazarctli in his laborer's garl), anil the I'riiiro of this world iji his royal 
robes. 

Ah, what a (loloful niocUcry of speech and common sense, was that 
which painted the Incarnation of Evil, in a liiileous shape, with all the 
{rrolesqiiR mummery of satyr's hoof and tail, poor as the poorest of earth's 
toiling children ! Whom could Satan ever tempt in a garb like this ? No, 
the Prince of this World, when he comes to tempt Man from the voice of 
(iod, speaking forever in his inmost soul, comes in pur|)le robes and fine 
linen, witli the (lash of grapes upon his cheeks, the well-liUed purse in liis 
lair hands, the marks of good cheer and rich banquets upon his portly form. 

80, in all his pride ami glory, stood lie before the humbly-clad Jesus of 
Nazareth. 

Look.' he cries, pointing willi liis hand towards tiiat sublime panorama 
of Empire crowded on Empire, which spreads far into the haze of distance, 
from the foot of this colossal clifT; Look! Ml these tvill J give line, if 
t/iOH toil I full down and uwrship me.' 

Jesus bends from lliat awful rlilf and gazes in mute wonder upon that 
scene. Ah, who may describe that spcctable, what power of imagery 
d('|iict the majestic drapery of glory which iloated around that boundless 
view ? 

There, rising into golden suidight, were cities, glittering with innumera- 
ble spires, grand with swelling domes, rank after rank, they grew into space, 
and shone with the glory of all ages. Yes, the glory of the past, the glory 
of the ])rescnt, the glory of the future were there ! Nineveh of old, rising 
from a l)oundless plain, scattered with palms, her giant walls looming in 
the light, her solitary temple towering over her wilderness of domes — 
Nineveh was there ! And there the Uomes of all ages swelling in con- 
trasted glory. Imperial Home — behold her ! Magnificent with colosseuni 
and theatre, her streets crowded with the victorious legions, Iier white tem- 
ples encircled by the smoke of incense, her unconi|uered banner S. 1*. Q. R. 
floating over the heads of kneeling millions — Imperial Rome, clad in the 
drapery of the Ca;sars, was there. 

By her side arose another Rome ; the Papal Rome of after years, with 
her immense cathedral breaking into space, over the ruins of the ancient 
city, while solemn I'untitl's, carried in gorgeous canoj)ies, on the shoulders 
of liveried guards, through the long files of kneeling worshippers, pointed to 
the Cross, the Image and the Sword, and waved their heavy robes, rich 
with lace and gold and jewels, as they swelled tlie anthem to the praise of 
Home, Papal Rome, the mistress of the souls of men ! 

Jesus beheld it all. 

Renounce tlnj mission, forsake the J'oice which now calls thee forth, to 



413 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

serve Ihis creature Man, who will afterwards trample on thee, and lo ! 
Behold till/ retvurd — all these, and 7nore than these will J give thee, if 
thou wilt full doivn and worship me ! 

Tlien IVom tlie unbounJed (itlj of space, liigli over Rome llie Imperial, 
Rome llie Papal, higli over Babylon liie great, yes, above gorgeous empires, 
■whose uaraci) have been lost in the abyss of ages, there rose another Empire, 
terrible to beliolil in her bloody beauty. 

She rose tiierc, towering into light ; an immense sea seemed to shut her 
cities in its girdle of blood-red waves. 

The white sails of her ships were on that sea, the tread of armed war- 
riors, crowding in millions, was heard in her palace gates, along her marts 
of commerce, nay, in her temples of religion ! She had grown strong with 
the inighl of ages. Mightier than Imperial liome, her dominion ended only 
with the setting sun, her banners were fanned by every breeze that swept 
the earth, the ice-wind of the north, the hot blast of the tropics, the summer 
gales of more lovely climes. 

She was terrible to behold that unknown empire, for her temples were 
built upon the skulls of millions, her power was fed on human flesh, her 
Red Cross Flag was painted with the blood of martyrs, moistened with the 
tears of the widow, fanned by the sighs of the ■orphan ! 

Dismal in her lurid grandeur, she towered there, above all other nations, 
claiming their reverence, nay, her loftiest dome pierced the sky, blazing 
with te.xls from the IJook of God, as though she would excuse her crimes in 
the face of Divinity himself, glossing Murder over, with a soft word, and 
sanctifying Blasphemy with a prayer ! 

O, it was a terrible picture, drawn by the hand of Satan, there on the 
golden haze of inlinite space. 

These, these will 1 give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me I 
Only renounce the I'oice which calls thee forth to the reli(f of suffering 
Man, only forsake this dream of Good — u beant if ul Dream it may be, yet 
still only a dream — which tells thee that thou canst lift tip the toiling 
iVillions of the human race, and the glory of all ages, the grandeur of all 
empires shall be thine! 

As the Tempter speaks in that soft persuasive voice, fluttering his jew- 
elled robes as he prayed this Jesus of Nazareth, clad in his humble garb, to 
descend into the herd of Conquerors and Kings, to become like them a 
drinker of human blood, a butcher of human hearts, let us look upon th6 
face of the Tempted one. 

Lo ! At that moment, as if the light of God's presence shone more 
serenely in his soul, this Man of Nazareth stands there, with a lofty scorn 
upon his brow, an immortal glory in his eyes. 

Solemnly he lifts his hand, his voice swells on the air : 

Get thee hence Salan, he exclaims in that voice of deep-toned music, 



THE WILDERNESS. 4I3 

now terrible in its accent of reproof, For it is written thou shall worship 
Jehovah thy God, and him onlv shalt thou serve ! 

It is written nut only in the Page of Revelation, but here upon the heart, 
thou shalt not worship GolJ nor Superstition, nor tinselled Hypocrisy ; 
thou shalt not bow down to Pomp, whose robes are stained in blood, nor 
reverence Power, whose throne is built on skulls, but thou shalt worship 
Jehovah the Father. To do good to Man is to worship God. 

Ah — blasted on the brow, trembling in each limb, the abashed Dkvii, — 
attired as he is, in till the pomp of tlie world — crawls froui the presence of 
that humbly clad Jesus of Nazareth. 

My friends shall we leave this beautiful passage in the life of Jesus, with- 
out listening to its moral, wiliiout taking to our iiearts the great truth which 
it teaches ? 

To you, O, Man of Genius, to you, O, Student, to you O, Seeker after 
the Beautiful, it speaks in a voice of strange, solemn emphasis : 

There will come a time in your life, when like Jesus, you will be led up 
from the wilderness of neglect and want, by the Prince of this world, into 
the eminence of Trial. You will have the good things of this world spread 
out before you, you will hear the voice of the Tempter ; 

Crush the voice that is now speaking to your soul — that voice which 
bids you go out and speak bold/// and act bravely for the rights of man 
— drown every honest thought — trample on every high aspiration, and 
Lo ! These shall be thine! The praise of men, the flattery of syco- 
phants, the pleasure of rich men's feasts and the hum of mob applause! 
These shall be thine, if thou ivilt fall down and worship me ! 

Does he not speak thus to you, O, Student, this purple-robed tempter, 
with his soft persuasive voice ? 

Do you tell him, in tones of scorn, like your Jesus before you : Get thee 
hence ! I will obey the voice ivhich impels me to speak out for 3/un — / 
will go on my dread way, my only object the ff'elfare of the Millions! I 
will worship the Lord Jehovah ! 

Then the Prince of this World, tells you with a sneer — Go on! Go on 
with your imaginary schemes for the good of mwi, and yoitder in the 
distance the Cross awaits you ! Go on ! and behold your reward for this 
honesty of purpose, as you call it! Vou will be despised in the syna- 
gogue, stoned in the mart, spit upon in the hulls of the great, crucified to 
public scorn, as a robber and a murderer ! 

So spake the Tempter to the Man of the Revolution, the signers of the 
Declaration. Is it not true ? 

Does not the Tempter in this our day, appeal to the most bestial emotion 
of the human heart — Fear ? 

Yes, the truth must be told, it was the curse of public opinion in the day 
of 70^ — as it is now — that shivering dread of the pompous Name, or the 
infallible Synagogue — in press and church and home — alike it rules — that 

50 



4I« THE FOUUTII OF jni.Y. 1776. 

crawling obeisance to creed and council, best syllabled in one emphatic 
won! — " Fkak." 

Let but llie Reformer of our time, who feels lliat (Jod has given him 
powers for the good of his bretliren, dare to be honest, dare to speak out 
boldly in his own way, against hideous evils, which glared in his face — 
IJehold his reward ! Scorn, hissed from serpent-lonffues, malice howled 
from slanderous throats, llie portentous bray of a Public Opinion, made up 
by men whose character and name, would not stand in the light of a farth- 
ing candle. 

Does the Author in the pages of a book, dare to picture the charneler of 
some lecherous Pharisee, who has crawled up into a pulpit, clothing his 
deformities with sacerdotal robes ? Behold — every lecherous Pharisee who 
may possess a pulpit, or mouth the holy name of Jesus for his thousand 
per year, assails that Ucfurmer from his cowardly eminence, excommuni- 
cates him from the synagogue, with bell, book, and candle, and more terrible 
than all, stamps on Jiis brow, the portentous word — Infidfl! 

Or does that Author with the honest impulse of a full heart, dare to drag 
tip from the obscurity of undeserved scorn, sonic great name of the Past, 
and render justice to martyred intellect, which in days by-gone, shone into 
Ihe hearts of millions with holy and refreshing light, then the vengeance of 
these worshippers of the Prince of the World, knows no bounds. The 
Pharisaical pulpit, the obscene Press, work hand in hand to accomplish 
that young man's ruin. No lie is too base, no slander loo gross, no epithet 
too malignant for the purpose of these atoms of an hour. If they cannot 
charge the patriot with Crime, they charge him with Poverty. If they can- 
not say that he is an Adulterer in holy robes, or a Scurvy Politician, feed- 
ing on the drippings of office, or a Forger clothing himself with the fruits 
of fraud, they wreak their vengeance in one word, and say, as their proto- 
types of old said of the Lord Jesus ; lU: is i-oor ! 

Thus in the Revolution, spoke the liveried and gowned pensioners of 
King George, against the Signers and their partners in the work of freedom. 
The British pulpit, and the British Press, joined their voices and spoke of 
the " Infidtl JclVerson"' who denied the divine right of Kings ; the " Traitor 
Washington" who at the head of his " Ragmullin Mob" in poverty and 
rebellion, held the huts of Valley Forgo. 

Far be it from me, my friends, to say one word against that pure Minister 
of the Gospel, who follows reverently in the footsteps of his Lord. Far be 
it from me to whisper a breath against that high-soulud Editor, who never 
prostitutes his press to the appetites of the malignant and obscene. Such a 
Minister, such an Editor 1 hold in reverence; they are worthy of our 
respect and honor. 

Yet we cannot disguise the fact, that There exists' now as in the 
time of the Revolution, a band of creatures calling themselves Ministers, a 
congregation of reptiles who assume the position of Directors of Public 



THE WILDERNESS. 415 

Opinion, while in their microscopic souls ihey have no more sense of a pure 
Religion, than the poor wretch who sold his Master, Cor thirty pieces of silver. 

Who made these fellows Ministers of Almighty God? Who clothed 
them with all the solemn gravity of the portentous nod, the white cravat, 
and the nasal twang? Who lifted them from their obscurity into Priests 
of the Altar, qualilicd to minister the holy rites of the sacrament, admonish 
the living, bury the dead? Who ! 

We do not wish to investigate their title, for our search might end on the 
same rock where the Prince of this World tempted the Ijord Jesus. 

Then my friends, there is species of the genus reptile, calling himself 
an Editor, who merits a passing word. The servile tool of some corrupt 
politician, paid to libel at so much per line, he is always the first to fear tlie 
cause of Religion. Recking with the foul atmosphere of the brothel, he is 
the first to shudder for the danger of public morals. Fresh from the boon 
companionship of" lewd fellows of the baser sort," he is a virulent moral 
lecturer. Were this creature alone in his work of infani)', not much fear 
need be taken on his account. Like tlie rattlesnake he can but leap his 
own slimy length. Yet a hundred reptiles together, hissing and stinging in 
chorus may appal the stoutest heart, so does this Reptile Editor join himself 
to other reptiles, and forjn an association of venom which poisons the life- 
springs of many a noble soul, and distils its saliva even in the fountains of 
home. This viper of the Press is not peculiar to our day — he hissed and 
stung, in the time wlien our freedom was but dawning from the long night 
of ages. The Tory Press of the Revolution, from Rivington of the New 
York Royal Gazette, down to his less notorious compeers of the Philadel- 
phia loyalist Press, in their malignant attacks upon Wasliington, did not 
even spare his private life. Forged letters were published day after day, 
in their pajjcrs, signed with the name of Washington, in which the very 
heart-strings of the chieftain were lorn, by the leprous hand of Editorial 
pestilence I The Father of his Country avoided these things, llie Reptile 
Editor and the Reptile Preacher, as he would have shunned a rabid dog. 
He turned their path, as you would from the path of a viper. Had the 
generous indignation of his soul found vent in words, he might have said 
like the Saviour to their Judoan proto-types — 

" O ! Scribes, Pharisees, Hypocrites, how shall ye escape the damnation 
of hell !" — 

With the vengeance, or rather the venom of men like these, Jesus was 
assailed in his day, because he refused to worship their master. So Wash- 
ington was assailed because he refused obedience to the King. Think not 
my friends, to escape the trial of your Saviour, if you follow in his footsteps. 
Think not, be honest and bold in your actions and your words, without 
feeling the fang of the viper in your soul. l!ut in the darkest hour of your 
life, when slander poisons your soul, and persecution blasts your frame, then 
remember these blessed words ; 



416 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 17T6. 

— Tlieii (he devil leavetli him, and behold ! Angels came and ministered 
unto him. — 

Yes, afier hunger ami tliirst and leniplaiion, beliold the Blessed Jesus, 
sittinj; on yonder granite rock, wiiile forms of beauty group about him, tlieir 
beaiuiug eyes li.ved upon his divine countenance. Forms of beautj', yes 
the most beautiful of forms — all that is pure in woman, lovely in the bloom 
of her face, beaming in the glance of her eye, rounded and ilovving in the 
outlines of iier siiape, — bend there before the Saviour, in liie guise of Angels ! 

Lo ! one radiant form with lloating tresses of golden hair brings the cup 
of wa(er; another, witii those eyes of unutterable beauty presents the wild 
honey-comb, the purple grapes, the fragrant fruit of liie fig-tree, a third, gli- 
ding around him, wilii steps that make no sound, sootiies his brow with tlie 
pressure of soft, white hands. 
— " Behold, angels ministered unto Him !" 

It is before me now, that beautiful jiiclure, created in the wild desert, with 
the background of the Dead Sea; Jesus sitting calm and serene on the 
rugged rock, while angel-forms kneel at his feet, bend over his shoulders, 
smile in his face, group in shapes of matchless loveliness around him. 

Hark, that song ? was ever hymn so soft and dreamy, heard in this desert 
wild before i It swells over the dark mass of rocks, it glides along the 
sullen waters of the lake, it bursts up to the morning sky in one choral 
murmur of praise. 

Angels cheer the Lord Jesus with their hymns. 

So, O, man of genius, O, Student, O, Seeker after the beautiful, shall 
angels cheer thee, and bless thee, and sing to thee ; after thou hast passed 
the liery ordeal of hunger, thirst, neglect and temptalion. From the book 
of God, Jesus speaks to thee, and his word is given ; it shall be. — Uehold 
Washington and JetTerson, with all the heroes and signers, rise triumphant 
through all time, over the Tempter and Pharisees of the Revolution ! 

VI.-" THE OUTCAST." 

We will now behold another scene in the Divine Master's life. To the 
very rock of Nazareth, we will trace the truths of the immortal Declaration. 

The scene changes yet once more. We are in Nazareth, that city built 
on a elift', with the white walls of its synagogue arising in the calm blue 
sky, above the mansions of the rich, the cottages of the poor. Let us still 
our hearts with awe, let us hush our breath with deep reverence, for it is the 
Sabbath, and we are in the SYNAcocrE. 

Yonder from the dome overhead, a dim, solemn light steals round the 
place, while a sacred silence pervades the air. 

Four pillars support that dome, four pillars inscribed with burning words 
from the book of God. 

In the centre of the place behold the ark, in which is placed the holy 
scroll of the law. Beside the ark a small desk arises where the reader of 



"THE OUTCAST." 417 

the Synagogue may stand and ulter ihe Sabbath prayers. Around this ark 
and desk, from the light of the dome to the darker corners of the place, 
throng the people of Nazareth silling on benches which encircle the centre 
of the temple. Yonder, behind the ark and desk, on loftier benclies are 
the eldfirs, iheir wliite beards trailing on each breast, the (lowing robes 
wound about each portly form, the broad phylactery on each wrinkled brow. 
TliesR are the rich men that rule the synagogue. 

In the dark corners, you see the gaunt faces, the ragged forms of the poor, 
who have skulked into the temple, ashamed of their poverty, yet eager to 
hear the word of the Lord. Around the altar are seated all classes of life, 
the merchant with bis calculating face, the mechanic widi his toil-worn 
hands, the laborer with his sunburnt visage. 

But here, on the right of the altar, amid that throng of women, beheld a 
matron seated in front of the rest, her form, with its full outlines, indicating 
the prime of womanhood, just touched, not injured by age, while her serene 
face, relieved by brown hair, silvered with grey, is lighted by large blue 
eyes. There are wrinkles on that brow, yet when you gaze in those ear- 
nest eyes, you forget them all. 

This is Mary the mother of .lesus. The sunbeam stealing from yonder 
dome, light up her serene face, and reveals that smile, so soft, and sad, and 
tender. 

Her son is to preach to day in the Syn^ogue ; his fame is beginning to 
stir the world. The mother awaits his appearance with a quiet joy, while 
yonder, in that toil-wrung man with the grey hair and sunburnt face, who 
leans upon his staff with clasped hands, you behold Joseph the Cariienler. 

A deep silence pervails in the temple. 

Yonder, in front of the elders is seated die Minister (or Reader) of the 
Synagogue, venerable in his beard, broad in his phylactery, with the scroll 
of the law in his hand. He has just finished the prayers of the Sabbath ; 
and all is sdent expectation. They wait for the appearance of this Jesus, 
who the other day, was toiling with his father, at the carpenter's bench. 
Aoiv, it is said he has become an eloquent Preacher; his name is bruited 
on every wind ; it is even said that he worked miracles yonder in Galilee. 
He, Jesus, the carpenter's son ! 

A murmur deepens through the synagogue. Eyes arc cast toward the 
door; faces turned over the shoulder; whispers resound on every side. 
The mother yonder rises from her seat ; how her blue eye fires ! The 
father lifts his head from his staff; a flush warms his wrinkled brow. 

He comes ! Yes, his rude garments, travel-worn, his long hair floating 
to his shoulders, embrowned by the roadside dust, he comes, the object of 
every eye, walking through the agitated crowd towards the altar. 

The poor, yes the ragged, toil-trodden poor, bend over the shoulders of 
the rich, eager to catch the gleam of those mild deep eyes, the silent elo- 
quence of that white brow, the love of those smiling lips. For it is said. 



418 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 177fi. 

. this Jesus lias dared to espouse tlip cause of the poor, even ap;ninst the 
pomp of liroad plivlacterios and vmrnilile beards. !So the rumor runs. 

Jesus advanrcs ; one plaiico to that Dear Mother, and their eyes iviiidie 
in tlie same blaze, one reverent inclination to that Father, and lie passes into 
the desk. 

Every eye beholds him ! 

Do you not sec him also, standing calm and erect, as his large earnest 
eyes slowly pass from face to face, while his countenance already glows 
with inward emotion ? He is there before me, one hand laid upon the un- 
opened scroll, while iho other rises in an earnest gesture. 

'J'he silence fjrows deeper. 

Ho opens the scroll ; it is the book of the Prophet Isaiah, that Poel and 
Sccr, whose burniiijj; words are uorlh all your Virgils and Homers, were 
their beauties multiplied by thousands. 

Hark, that voice, how it rings tlirough the temple: 

" Tht Spirit of Jehovah is upon me.'' he e.xclainis, as he stands there, 
glowing with Divinity ; lie hath anointed me to preach s^ood tidings to 
the Poor .'" 

A deep murmur fdls the synagogue. The Elders bend forward in 
■wonder, the Poor start up from their dark corners with a silent rapture. 
Mary clasps her hands and looks into the face of her Son. Still that bold, 
earnest voice rings on the SabbalW air. 

" He hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to 
the captive, sight to the li/ind, lilierli/ to them that arc bndsed ! — " 

Then while the murmur deepens, while the Elders start from their seats, 
and the Poor come hurrying forward, do you see that frame dilate, that eye 
burn, as his voice swells again through the temple, 

" To preach the acceptable Year of the Lord. " 

Yes, freedom to the slave, hope to the Poor, the (Jreat Millenium of God 
— when Beauty shall dwell on earth forever — to all the Sons of Men ! 

Then while wonder and indignation and rapture and scorn thrill round 
the temple, this Jesus closes the book and from that desk, proclaims him- 
self the ANOINTED ONE of God, tile Kedeemer of the Poor ! 

Ah, what eloquence, what soul, what fire ! How he pictures the degra- 
dation of Man, now crouching under the foot of Priest and King, how he 
thunders indignant scorn into the face of IMiarisee and scribe, how, stretching 
forth his arms, while his chest heaves and his eye burns, he proclaims llie 
coming of that blessed day, wlien Man shall indeed be free ! 

He stood there, not like an huniblj pleader for the right, but with tlie 
tone and look and gesture of Divinity, who e.\claims. Let there be light and 
light there was ! 

Yet look ! Those bearded men with broad phylacteries, have started 
from their seats ; they encircle him with flushed faces and eyes gleaming 



"THE OUTCAST." 419 

I see tlie most rRvcreiul of llicm all, stand tlicrc, with the sneer drcpcn- 
ing over his I'aco, while his slrai);hteiied linger points to the face of Jesus — 

Look ! he cried, lunnug to his brethren, Js not this Joseph the Carpen- 
ter's son ? 

Is not tliis the man of toil, who, the other day was workinfr at a rude 
bench ? Behold iiis mother — a poor woman ! IJehold his father — a car- 
penter ? Docs he come to teach us, the Elders of the synagogue, broad in 
our phylacteries, (lowing in our robes, voluminous in our prayers ? 

Hut the Poor press forward too, and one rude son of toil kneels there 
before him, pressing tlie hem of his gaberdine, while his eyes are lifted to 
his face. Mary — ah, let us pity the poor Mother now ! — for starting to her 
feet, she clasps her hands, while her lips part and her eye dilates as she 
awaits the end. 

Joseph has buried his head upon bis bosom. 

Jesus rises supreme above them all. Yes, imawed by the scowling 
brows, unmoved by the words of scorn, be spreads forth his arms, his 
voice rings on the air once more ! 

— " Jl Prophet is not without honor save in his own country and his own 
house! — " 

These words have scarce passed his lips, when the uproar deepens into 
violence. 

Forth with him ! the cry yells through the synagogue. Forth with him, 
blasphemer! Forth with him from the synagogue and the city ! To the 
rock, to the rock with the Iniidkl ! 

With one accord they burl him from the desk, they, the venerable elders, 
with the broad phylacteries. Rude hands grasp him, demoniac voices yell 
in his ear. At this moment, even as they drag him from the desk, a little 
child, with flowing hair and dilating eyes, adrighted by the clamor, steals 
up to Jesus, seizing his robe with its tiny hands. His face, alone calm and 
smiling in the uproar, seems to promise shelter to the startle child. 

Through the passage of the synagogue they drag him, and now he is in 
the open air, with the Sabbath sun pouring upon his uncovered brow. Along 
the streets, from the city, over the (linty stones — to the rock with the 
blasphemer ! 

The city is built upon a rock, which yawns over an abyss. Plunged 
from this rock, dashed into atoms on the stones below, this blasphemer shall 
blaspheme no more ! 

All the while, poor Mary, weeping, trembling, clasping her hands in an- 
guish, follows the crowd, imploring mercy for her son. Do you see the 
finger of scorn pointed at her face, the brutal sneer levelled at her heart ? 

Joseph humbled and abashed, lias gone quietly away, perhaps to his car- 
penter shop, to weep that this bold Jesus ever dared to beard the Synagogue. 

Out from the city with shouts and yells and curses ! Out along the 
flinly path — behold the crowd attains the rock. 



420 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

Siirroundnd by these forms, tremliling with passion, these faces scowling 
with rajre, Jesus looks calmly over liie abyss, while a roufrh hand pinions 
earli arm. It is an awful sii^hl, that steep wall of rock, risiiij; from the 
ravine hrlow. Even the cKlers, who liolil tliis (Carpenter's son on tiie verge 
of the roek, start back atrrii;lited. 'Die dizzy heiglilli appals their souls. 

The shouts, cries, curses, deepen. Man never looks so much like a 
brute, as when cnfjai;cd in an act of violence, but wlien this act is mob vio- 
lence, where many join to crush a solitary victim, then man looks like a 
brute and devil combined. 

There is not one face of pity in that frenzied crowd. From afar some 
few poor men, slaves of the rich and afraid to brook their anfjer, gaze upon 
tlie crowd with looks of sympathy for Jesus stamped upon their rude faces. 

IMary too, do you not see her kneeling there, some few paces from the 
crowd, her hands uplifted, while her brown hair, slightly touched with grey, 
floats wildly to the breeze. She has sunken down, exhausted by the con- 
flict of emotions, even yet she shrieks for mercy, mercy for this Jesus, 
her Son I 

Jesus looks over the dizzy rock. 

Nearer they urge him to its verge, nearer and nearer; ah — he is on the 
edge — another inch and he is gone — hark ! his foot brushes the earth from 
the brink ; yon hear it crumbling as he stands there, looking into the abyss, 

At this moment, pinioned by rude arms, he turns his face over his shoul- 
der i he gazes upon that crowd. 

O, the immortal scorn, the withering pity of that gaze ! His brow glows, 
his eyes fire, his lips wreathe in a calm smile. 

As one man the crowd shrink back, they cannot face the lustre of those 
eyes. IJehoUl — the I'harisies who grasp the arm of Jesus, fall on their 
knees with their faces to the (lint. That radiant brow strikes terror to their 
souls. 

In a moment he is free, free upon the edge of the elifl', the glory of Di- 
vinity radiating in flashes of light around that white brow, while the rough 
carpenter's robes seem to change into new garments, flowing as the morning 
mist, luminous as sunshine. Even his long hair, fulling to his shoulders, 
seems to wave in flakes of light. 

Give way ye I'luirisces, give way ye bearded Elders, give way ye makers 
of long prayers, with your flowing robes and broad phylacteries, for Jesus 
the Carpenter's son would pass through your midst ! 

And he comes on from the verge of the cliif, even through their midst. 
Jesus comes in silent grandeur. 

Where are these men who shouted Infidel — Dog — Ulasphemer — a mo- 
ment ago ? Crouching on the earth, their faces to the flint, their flowing 
robes thrown over their heads, there they are, these solemn men, with vene- 
rable beards and broad phylacteries, 

Jesus passes on. 



"THE OUTCAST." 421 

Silenlly, his bpautiful countenance beaming with immortal love, his arms 
folded on his breast, he passes on. 

Yes, it is written in the book of God ; » He passing from the midst of 
them, went his way." 

He is gone from their city. They raise their afTri^^^lited faces, while 
malice rankles in tlieir hearts, and follow his form with Hashing eyes. 

Mary gazes upon him, also, weeping bitterly for Jesus, her Outcast son, 
now a wanderer and exile from tiie home of his childhood. 

Can you imagine a picture like this ? 

Yonder on tiie summit of a hill, the last which commands a view of 
Nazareth, its synagogue and rock, just where the roadside turns and follows 
the windings of a shadowy valley, stands Jksus, resting iiis clasped liands 
on his stair, while his eyes are fixed upon the distant city. 

Wiio may picture the untold bitterness of that gaze ? 

It is home, the l^wn in which he was reared, beneath the fond light of a 
Mother's eyes. There is the carpenter shop in which he toiled ; there the 
walks of his solitary hours, nay, the temple in which lie was wont to kneel 
in prayer. 

And now, with scorn and curses and rude hands, they have thrust him 
forth, AN OUTCAST from his home. 

It was his earnest, yearning desire to do good in that town ; to reveal 
his high mission there ; to proclaim the great year of Jehovah, to the people 
of his childhood's home. 

And now he stands there, gazing upon the town, while the mark of their 
rude grasp yet reddens on his arms, while the words. Blasphemer, Infidel, 
Dog, yet echo in his ears. 

He is an Outcast, this Jesus the Carpenter's son. 

O, if there is one drop in the cup of persecution more bitter than another, 
it is the galling thought of neglect and wrong wliich sinks into the heart of 
that Man, who has been driven forth like a venomous snake, from his child- 
hood's home, even m the moment when his soul burned brightest with its 
love for God and Man ! 

Welcome indeed is the grasp of a friend in a foreign land, but dark and 
terrible is the blow which hurls us from the threshhold of our home ! 

God in all his dispensations of a/iliction, with which he visits us for our 
good, has no darker trial than this ! 

My friends, I confess from the fulness of my heart, as I behold the 
solemn lesson which this passage in our Saviour's life, has for the man of 
genius, the student, the seeker after the beautiful, I am wrapt in wonder, in 
pity, in awe, that one man of intellect ever doubted the truth of this Reve- 
lation. 

51 



422 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

Behold the lesson ! 

Here on tiiis rock of the hill-top, stands Jesiis the Outcast, gazing on his 
childhood's home. Godly Pharisees have thrust him forth ; sanctimonious 
Elders have hissed the words, Iiilidel, dog, blasphemer in his ears ! 

The day will come, when the beards and phylacteries of these men will 
have crumbled in the same forgotten grave, where their flesh and bones rot 
into dust. Their paltry town will be the abiding place of the Gentile and 
the scoffer ; their religion crushed beneath the horse's hoofs of invading 
legions. 

That town will claim a name in history, only because it was once the 
Home of Jesus. That religion be remembered only, because it prepared 
the way for the Religion of Jesus. Yes, the name of the Outcast, who now 
stands upon this hill, gazing upon the distant town, will one day cover the 
whole earth ; it will throb in the heart of Universal Man, like the Presence 
of a God ! 

Who will remember the Pharisees, who record the names of the Elders ? 
Into what dim old grave shall we look for their dust ? 

Where are the hands that smote the Lord Jesus, where the tongues that 
hissed Blasphemer ! in his ears ? 

Eighteen centuries have passed, and the name of this Jesus where 

does it not shine ? 

Shouted on the scaffold, with the last gasp of martyrs, whose flesh was 
crumbling to cinder, breathed by the patriot, dying on the batdefield for the 
rights of man, echoed by millions of worshippers, who send it up to Heaven, 
with prayer and incense, every hour of the day, every moment of the hour, 
that NAME has dared the perils of untrodden deserts, ascended hideous 
mountains, traversed unknown seas, encompassed the globe with its glory. 

It has done more than all — it has survived the abuses with which Phari- 
sees and Hvpocrites, like their fathers of old, have not hesitated to darken 
its light, through the long course of eighteen hundred years. 

Even the fang of the Dishonest Priest has failed to tear that name frona 
the heart of Man. 

Even long and bloody religions wars, crowding the earth with the bodies 
of the dead, darkening the heaven with their blood-red smoke, have not 
effaced this name of Jesus ! 

Not even the fires of Sinithfield, nor that Hell revealed on earth, the In- 
quisition, nor that cold-blooded murder, done by a remorseless Bigot, in the 
open square of Geneva, the victim a weak and unoffending man, nor a 
thousand such fires, inquisitions and murders, all working their barbarities 
in this Holy Name, have been able to drag it from the altar where it shines, 
the only hope of Man. 

Still the Name of Jesus lives ; who shall number the hearts in which it 
throbs, with every pulsation of love and joy and hope ? Who shall number 
tlie sands on the shore, or coupt the beams of the sun ? 



THE HOPE OF EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS. 423 

And when tliat blessed day shall come — and come it will, as sure as 
Jehovah lives ! — When Kings and Priests shall be hurled from their thrones 
of wrong and superstition, when Labor shall be no longer trodden down, by 
the feet of task-masters, when every man who toils shall receive his equal 
portion of the fruits of the earth, when a church gorgeously apparehid in 
all the splendor of lofty temples, uncounted revenues, hosts of pensioned 
ministers shall be demanded no more, when this Earth shall indeed be the 
Garden of God, and men indeed be Brothers — 

Then crowning the great work with its awful and blessed benediction, 
one name shall swell to the sky, echoed by the voices of innumerable Mil- 
lions, the name of Him whom Pharisees and Elders thrust igiiomiuiously 
forth, from the synagogue of Nazareth, the Friend of the Poor, the God of 
Washington and the signers — the name of Jesus. 

VII.— THE HOPE OF EIGHTEEN HUNDRED VE.IRS. 

Now let us see how the Great Hope of the Redeemer's Life was fulfilled, 
after the lapse of some eighteen hundred years ! 

We will come down to the year 1775 — we will make a rapid journey 
over the earth — 

Saviour of the world where are thy People, where are the millions for 
whom thou didst suffer, and bleed, and die ? 

Let us look over Europe — what see we there ? 

Magnificent temples — crowds of Priests — rivers of blood ! 

But thy millions. Saviour of the World — where are they ? The children 
of Toil — those who wear the Mechanic's garb — those for whom thou 
didst weep such bitter tears, in the Ages long ago — where are they ? 

In the deep mines — in the hot fields — in the hotter workshops — bending 
beneath heavy burdens — crouching beneath the lash — these, these are thy 
People, O Redeemer of the World ! 

And was it for this, that the tears of Gelhsemane fell — the groans of 
Calvary arose ? 

Was it to build these temples — to rear these thrones — to crush these toil- 
ing millions into dust ? 

Here, in Rome where . St. Paul spoke forth words that made Em- 
perors tremble for their thrones — here you see nothing but lordly priests 
walking on to power, over a strange highway — the necks of a kneeling and 
down-trodden People ! 

But this is Rome — benighted — Pagan Rome — let us go to liberal en- 
lightened, Protestant Europe ! 

Go to Germany — go to the scene of the Reformation — what see you 
there ? 

Why the tears of persecuted Innocence rain down upon the very grave 



421 THE FOURTH OF JULY, I7T6. 

of Mnrtin Lutlipr — yes, the sweat, tlie blood of llie millions sink into the 
Ureal Rcfiirmrr's grave, ami drench liis hones ! 

Hut ah, this is (Jermany — douhtless Protestant Persecution rages here, 
and dyes the land in hlood — hut still there is a hope for the Imman race ! 

Let us pass hy benijjiited France, with its Monarch, its Priests, its slaves 
— its throne — its temples — its huts and its Baslile — let us go over the 
channel to Christian Kufjland ! 

Here Saviour of the world, here thy Religion has found a home — for is 
not the broad Isle crowded with churches — is there an hour in the day un- 
sanclified by a Prayer? 

It is true, for every church there is a factory, a poor-house, or a jail — it 
is true for every prayer that ascends to heaven, a miserable convict is 
pitched from some <j;il)l)ct into Elernily — it is true, that if every groan 
wrung from the Poor Man's iieart, could harilen into a pebble, then might 
these Priests build them a church, as large as ten thousand Si. Pauls heaped 
on each other — 

But is not this enlightened, liberal, Protestant, Reformed England ! 

Look, in yonder palace of Windsor, sits a man willi a glassy unmeaning 
eye — a drivelling lip — a man buried in robes of Purple, a crown on his re- 
ceding brow, a sceptre in his gouty hand ! 

And this is Thy Representative, O, Man of Nazareth? This is the 
Head of the Church — Defender of the Faiih — this, this is the British 
Pope ! 

Yes, this is the Defender of the Faith ! — And let us look at this faith — 
so kind, so merciful, so beautiful ! 

So anxious is Pope George to defend the Faith, that even now he is 
gathering Missionaries, who will carry this faith across three thousand 
miles of ocean ! 

Go there to the barracks — the dockyards — go there and find his mission- 
aries, preparing for tlicir high duties with bayonets in their hands ! 

A goodly band of Missionaries ! Look — their numbers are swelled by 
convicts from the jail — nay even the Murderer on the gibbet comes down — 
lakes the rope from his neck — puts a red coat on his back, a musquet on 
liis shoulder — and stands forth — a Holy Missionary of Pope George ! 

And whom are these Missionaries to convert l 

Blessed Redeemer look yonder, far over the waters ! Look yonder, 
upon that New World, where the Outcasts of the old world have built a 
Home, a Nation, a Religion ! That Home a refuge for the oppressed of 
all the earth — that nation a Brotherhood founded by the Men of Plymouth 
rock — by the Catholic of Baltimore — by tlic Quaker of the Delaware ! 
That Religion, Hope to Man ! Hope to 'J'oil ! Hope to Misery in its 
hut — Despair in its cell ! 

And now after this nation — this home — this religon — have built the altar 
of the rights of man in the wilderness — behold George tiic Pope of Eng- 



COUNCIL OF FREEMEN. 425 

lanJ is sending his missionaries far over the waters to the New World, to 
butcher its men, to dishonor its women, to drench its soil in hlood ! 

Already the brothers of these missionaries have begun their work — 
already they have endeavored to teach their mild persuasive doctrines to the 
people of the new world — but these heathens reject the British Mission- 
aries — yes, on Bunker Hill, Concord, Lexington, the heathens of the new 
world, trample tiie flag of England into dust — and bury that flag beneath 
the dead bodies of these Missionaries of the British Pope ! 

And while these new crowds of Missionaries are leaving the shores of 
England, look yonder I pray you, and behold that solitary man, short in 
stature, clad in a plain brown coat — see him embark on shipboard, behold 
him leave the shores of England. 

Do you know that yonder solitary man in the brown coat, is destined 
to do more harm to tiie Britisii Pope, llian centuries will repair ? Did 
George of Hanover but know, what great thoughts are stirring in the 
brain of this little man, as leaning over the side of the receding ship, he 
gazes back upon the wiiite clifls of Albion — he would tear his royal robes 
for very spite, nay ofl'er the little man an earldom, a title, wealth, baubles, 
power, rather than he should depart from the English shore with such great 
thoughts working in his great soul. 

Let us follow this unknown man in the brown coat. 

We are in Philadelphia in 1775 — it is the time when a body of rebels 
who impudently style themselves, the " Continental Congress," hold their 
sessions, on yonder edifice somewhat retired from Chesuut Street, called 
Carpenter's Hall. 

You may have seen tiiis building ? It still is standing there — yes, up a 
dark alley in Chesnut Street, between Third and Fourth it stands, the hall of 
ihejirst Continental Congress, now used as the sale room of an auctioneer ! 
We have a great love for antiquities in Philadelphia — we reverence the 
altars of the past, for lest any lying foreigner sliould charge us with the des 
cretion of holy places, we tear down the old house of William Penn, sell 
chairs and clocks and ponies in Carpenter's Hall, and degrade Independence 
Hall, that altar of the woild, into a nest for squabbling lawyers ! 

VlII— COUNCIL OF FREEMEN. 

It was in the time when a band of rebels sate in Carpenter's Hall — when 
the smoke of Lexington and Bunker Hill, was yet in the sky, and the un- 
dried blood of Warren and the martyrs, was yet upon tiie ground— that a 
scene of some interest took place, in a quiet room, in the city of William 
Penn. 

Look yonder, and behold that solitary; lamp, flinging its dim light around 
a neatly furnished room. 

Grouped around that table, the full warmth of the light, pouring full in 



420 THE FOURTH OF JULY, I7TC. 

their faces, are live persons — a Boston Lawyer, a Philadelphia Printer, a 
Philadelphia Doctor, and a Virginia Farmer. 

Come with me there to that lonely room — let lis seat ourselves there- 
let us look into the faces of these men — the one with the bold brow and 
resolute look, is one John Adams from Boston ; next to him sits the calm- 
faced Benjamin Rush — then you see the marked face of the Printer, one 
Benjamin Franklin, and your eye rests upon a man, distinguished above all 
others by his height, the noble outlines of his form, the calm dignity of his 
forehead, the quiet majesty of his look. That man is named Washington 
— one Mr. George AVashington, from Mount Vernon. 

These men are all members of the Rebel Congress ; they have met here 
to night to talk over the afiairs of their country. Their talk is deep-toned 
— cautious — hurried. Every man seems afraid to give free utterance to the 
thoughts of his bosom. 

They talk of Bunker Hill — of Lexington — of the blood-thirsty British 
Ministry — of the blood-thirsty British King ! 

Then, from the lips of Franklin comes the great question — Where is this 
War to end ? Are we fighting only for a change in the British Ministry, 
or — or — for the Independence of our land ? 

There is silence in that room. 

Washington, Adams, Rush — all look into each other's faces — and are 
silent ! 

Bound to England by ties of ancestry — language — religion — the very 
idea of separation from Her, seems a Blasphemy ! 

Yes, with their towns burnt, their people murdered — Bunker Hill smoking 
there, and Le.Kington bleeding yonder — still, still, these Colonists cling to 
the name of England, still shudder at that big word, that chokes their throats 
to speak — Independence. 

At this moment, while all is still, a visitor is announced — look there ! As 
that unknown man in the brown coat enters — is introduced by Franklin — takes 
his seat at the table — is informed of the topic in discussion — look there upon 
his brow, his flashing eye, as in earnest words he speaks forth his soul ! 

Washington, Rush, Franklin, Adams, all are hushed into silence ! At 

first the little man in the brown coat startles horrifies them with his 

political blasphemy ! 

But as he goes on, as his broad, solid brow warms with fire, as liis eye 
flashes the full light of a soul roused into all its life, as those deep earnest 
tones speak of the Independence of America — her glorious future — her des- 
tiny, that shall stride on over the wrecks of thrones, to the Universal Empire 
of Western Continent, then behold ! 

They start from around the table — they press that stranger in the brown 
coat, by the hand — they beg him for God's sake, to write these words in a 
book, — a book that shall be read in all the homes, thundered from all the 
pulpits of America ! 



THE BATTLE OF THE PEN. 427 

Do you see that picture, my friends ? 

Tliat little mail in the brown coat, standing there, flushed, trembHng with 
the excitement of his own thougiits ; tlie splendidly formed Virginia 
planter on one side, grasping him by llie hand ; those great-souled men 
encircling him on the other side, John Adams the Lawyer, Benjamin Rush 
tlie Doctor, Benjamin Franklin the Printer. 

Let this scene pass : let us follow this little man in the brown coat, thrq^ 
the year 1775. 

The day after this scene, that modest Virginia Planter, George Washing- 
ton, was named Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Armies. 

IX.— THE BATTLE OF THE PEN. 

And on the summer days of '75, that stranger in the brown coat, was 
seen walking up and down, iu front of the old State House, his great fore- 
head shown in full sunlight, while with hands placed behind his back, he 
went slowly along the pavement. 

Then that humble man would stride to his lonely garret, seize the quill, 
and scratch down the deep thoughts of his brain ! Then forth again, for 
a walk in the State House square — up and down under these old trees, he 

wanders all the afternoon at night, there is a light burning in yonder 

garret window, burning all night till break of day ! 

Let us look ill that garret window — what see you there ? 

A rude and neglected room — a litde man in a brown coat, sitting beside 
an old table, with scattered sheets of paper all about him — the light of an 
unsnuflcd candle upon his brow — that unfailing quiH in his hand ! 

Ah, my friends, you may talk to me of tlie sublimity of your batdcs, 
whose poetry is bones and skulls — but for me, there is no battle so awfully 
sublime, as one like this, now being fougiit before our eyes. 

A poor, neglected Autlior, sitting in his garret, — the world, poverty, time, 
and space, all gone from him — as with a soul kindled into one steady blaze, 
he plies that fast-moving quill. That quill puts down words on that paper, 
words that sliall burn into the brains of Kings, like arrows winged with fire, 
and pointed with vitriol ! 

Go on brave Author, sitting in your garret alone, at this dead hour — go 
on — on through the silent hours — on, and God's blessings fall like breezes 
of .Tune upon yom' damp brow — on'i and on, for you are writing the Thoughts 
of a Nation into Birth ! 

For many days, in that year '75, was that litde man in a brown coat, 
seen walking up and down the State House square — look yonder ! There 
in yon garret, niglit after night, burns that solitary light — burns and burns 
on, till the break of day. 

At last the work is done I At last grappling the loose sheets in his 
trembling hands — trembling, because feverish with the toil of the brain — 



428 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

that author ffoes forth. His book is written, it must now be printed — 
sraiiered to the Homes of America ! But look ye — not one printer will 
touch the book — not a publisher but j^rows pale at the sight of those dingy 
pages ! Because it ridicules the British Pope — ridicules the British Mon- 
archy — because it speaks out in plain words, that nothing now remains to 
be done, but to declare ihe New World free and Independent ! 

This shocks the trembling printers ; touch such a mass of treasonable 
stulV — nerer .' But at last a printer is found — a bold Scotchman, named 
Robert Bell — he consents to put these loose pages into type — it is done ; 
and on the first of January, 1770, Common Sense burst on the People of 
the new world ! Bursts upon the hearts and homes of America, like a light 
from heaven ! That book is read by the Mechanic at l\is bench, the Mer- 
chant at his desk, the Preacher in his pulpit reads it, and scatters its great 
truths with the teachings of Revelation ! 

" It burst from the Press " — says the great Doctor Rush, — " with an 
effect which has rarely been produced by types or paper, in any age or 
country !" 

That book of OotTimon Sense said strange and wonderful things : listen 
to it for a moment : — 

" But where, say some, is the King of America ? I'll tell you, friend, he 
reigns above, and doth not make havoc of mankind, like the Royal Brute of 
Britain ! Yet that we may not appear to be defective in earthly honors, let 
a day be solemnly set apart for proclaiming the Charter , let it be brought 
forth, placed on the divine law, the Word of God ; let a crown be placei! 
thereon, by which the world may know, that so far as we approve of Mon- 
archy, that in America the law is King. For as in absolute governments 
the king is law, so in free countries the Law ought to be king, and there 
ought to be no other. But lest any ill use should afterwards arise, let the 
crown at the conclusion of the ceremony, be demolished, and scattered 
among the People, whose Right it is !" 

Was not that bold language, from a little man in a brown coat, to a great 
King, sitting there in his royal halls, at once the Tyrant and the Pope of 
America ? 

Listen to " common sense" again : 

" A greater absurdity cannot be conceived of, than three millions of 
people, running to their sea coast, every time a ship arrives from London, 
to know what portion of Liberty they should enjoy." 

Or again — here is a paragraph for George of England to give to the 
Archbishops of Canterbury, to be read in all churches after the customary 
prayers for the Roval Pamily : — 

" No man," says Common Sense, " was a warmer wisher for a recon- 
ciliation, than myself, before the fated 19ih April, 1775," — the day of the 
IVTassacre of liexington — " but the moment the event of that day was made 
known, . I rejected the hardened, sullen-tempered Pharoah of England 



I 



THE AUTHOR. SOLDIER. 420 

forever; and disdain the wretch, that with the pretended tide of Fatlier 
of his People, can unfeelingly hear of their slaughter, and composedly sleep 
with their blood upon his soul." 

Listen to the manner in which this great work concludes : 

* * * Independence is the only bond that can tie us together. « * * * « 
Let the names of Whig and Tory be extinct; and let none other be heard 
among us, tiian those of a good citizen ; an open and resolute friend : and 
a virtuous supporter of the rights of Mankind, and of the Free and Inde- 
pendent States of America. 

Need I tell you, my friends, that this work, displaying the most intimate 
knowledge of the resources of America — the nerve of her men, the oak of 
her forests, the treasures of her mines, — displaying an insight into the future 
greatness of the American Navy, that was akin to Propbccy, need I tell 
you, tbat this work, cutting into small pieces the cobwebs of Kingship and 
Courtiership — the pitiful absurdity of America being for one hour dependent 
upon Britain — struck a light in every American bosom — was in fact the 
great cause and forerunner of the Declaration of Independence ! 

And is tliere a heart here that does not throb with emotion, at the 
name of the author of that Declaration, Thomas Jeiferson, the Statesman- 
Hero ? 

And do your hearts throb at the mention of his name, and yet refuse to 
pay the tribute of justice to the memory of his brotlier-patriot, his forerunner 
in the work of freedom, the Author-Hero of tlie Revolution — Thomas 
Paine ? 

x— the author-soldier. 

Now let us follow this man in the brown coat, this Thomas Paine, 
through the scenes of the Revolution. 

In the full prime of early manhood, he joins the army of the Revolution ; 
he shares the crust and the cold, with Washington and his men— he is with 
those brave soldiers on the toilsome march— with them by the camp-fire— 
with them in the hour of batde ! 

And why is he with them ? 

Is the day dark — has the battle been bloody- do the American soldiers 
despair ? Hark ! That printing press yonder, that printing press that 
moves with the American host, in all its wanderings— is scattering pamphlets 
through the ranks of the army ! 

Pamphlets written by the author-soldier, Thomas Paine, written some- 
times on the head of a drum--or by the midnight tire, or amid the corses 
of the dead— Pamphlets that stamp great Hopes and greater Truths in Plain 
words, upon the souls of the Continental Army ! 

Tell me, was not that a sublime sight, to see a man of Genius, wim might 
have sbone as an Orator, a Poet, a Novelist, following with untiring devo- 
tion, the footsteps of the Coutinenlal army ? 



430 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

Yes, in the dark days of '70, wlien the soldiers of Washington tracked 
their footsteps on tiie soil of Trcnlon, in the snows of Princeton — there, 
first among the licroes and patriots, there, unllinching in the hour of defeat, 
writing his "Crisis," by the liglit of the camp-fire, was the Autiior-IIero, 
Thomas Paink ! ~ 

Yes, look yonder — behold the Crisis read by every Corporal in the army 
of Washington, read to the listening group of soldiers — look what joy, what 
hope, what energy, gleams over those veteran faces, as words like these 
break on tlicir ears : 

" Tiiese are the times that try men's souls ! The summer soldier and 
the sunshine patriot, will in this crisis, shrink from the service of liis coun- 
try ; but he tiiat stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and 
woman. Tyranny like hell, is not easily conquered ; yet we liave this 
consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the 
triumph ! — " 

Do not words like these s(ir up the blood ? 

Yet can you imagine their cflect, when read to groups of starved and 
bleeding soldiers, by the dim watcii-fire, in the cold air of llie winter dawn ? 

iSuch words as these stirred up the .starved Conlinciilals to the attack on 
Trenton, and there, in the dawn of glorious morning, George Washington, 
standing sword in hand, over the dead body of the Hessian Kalle, confessed 
the magic influence of the Aulhor-IIero, Thomas Paine ! 

The lowest libeller that ever befouled a pen, a vulgar and infamous 

fellow, — we need not name him — who lias written a Lie of some 347 
pages, and called it, "The Life of Thomas Paine," this libeller, who spits 
his venom upon the memory of Franklin and Jeflerson — in fact, combines, 
in his own person, more of the dirty in falsehood — the disgusting in ob- 
scenity — tlie atrocious in perjury — than any pcnsler that ever wrote for 

British Gold, at liie dictation of a Diilish Court this Biographer, I say, 

who after the object of his spite was dead, sought out for something enef- 
fably disgusting, with wiiicii to beloul the dead man's memory, and tinding 
nothing so foul as his own base soul, poured out that soul, in all its native 
filth, upon the dead man's bones — this creature, whom it were a libel upon 
human nature to call — Man — .\thcist, Blasphemer, libeller of the dead as 
he was — even He confessed, that " the Pen of Tom Paine was as for- 
midable to the British, as the cannon of Washington !" 

X.— THE rEOI'LE AND TIIE CUI.MINAL. 

Now, my friends we will change the scene. 

Conic wiUi me over tiireo thousand miles of waves, conic with me to 
Paris. 

Come with me, past yon heap of rocks and burnt embers : — the ruins of 



THE PEOPLE AND THE CRIMINAL. 431 

the Bastile — come with mc, through these scattered crowds wlio murmur 
in the streets — hush 1 hold your breath as you enter this wide hall. 

What see you now ? 

A splendid chamber — splendid, because encircled with the architectural 
trophies of four hundred years — a splendid chamber, crowded by one dense 
mass of human beings. Here— and here— wherever you look, you see 
nothing but that wall of human faces. 

Does not the awfid sdence that broods here, in this splendid saloon, strike 
upon your hearts, with an impression of strange omen? 

Tell me, oh tell me, and tell me at once, what means the liorror that I 
see brooding and gathering over this wall of faces ? Listen ! 

Here in this hall, the people of France have gathered, yes, from the dear 
vallies of Provence and Daupliine — from the wilds of Bretagne — from 
the palaces and huts of Paris, the people have gathered to try a great 
Criminal. 

That criminal sits yonder in the felon's seat — a man of respectable ap- 
pearance — sitting there, with a woman of strange loveliness by his side — 
sitting there, with the only uncovered brow in all this vast assemblage ! 

That criminal is Louis Capet, he is to be tried here to day, for treason to 
the people of France. 

And when you look upon that mild-visaged man, sitting there, with the 
beautiful woman by ids side, and feel inclined to pity him — to weep for 
that lender woman — as you see the lowerin? looks, of this vast crowd di- 
rected to the pair — as you feel that this awful silence, brooding and gather- 
ing on every side, speaks a terror, a horror more to be feared than tlie loud- 
est words. — 

Then as pity, sympathy, gather over your hearts, then I pray you in the 
name of God to remember, that this man liere, sits clothed with the groans, 
the tears, the blood of fifteen million people — yes, that the mildly beautiful 
pearls, that rise and fall, with every pulsation of that woman's bosom, if 
transformed into their original elements, would flood the wide hall with two 
rivers — a river of tears, a river of blood ! 

And now, as the great question is about to be decided — Shall Louis the 
Traitor-King, live or die ! — let us for a moment, I beseech you, look at 
the great moral, the great truth of this scene 

Ah, is it not a sublime sight, this that breaks upon our eye — a King on 
Trial for treason to his People ! For ages, and for ages, these Kings have 
waded up to thrones, through rivers of blood, yes built their thrones upon 

islands of dead bodies, centered in those rivers of blood and now, and 

now, the cry of vengeance, rising from fifteen millions up to God, has 
pierced the eternal ear, and called his vengeance down ! 

It is a sublime sight that we have here — a King on trial for his crimes— 
his people the judges and the executioners. 



432 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

Do you know the regret that seizes my soul, when I contemplate this 
scene ? 

That we. Americans, aHer our Revolution, did not brinj^ourTraitor-Kin<r, 
Georcre the Third, to Iiuli'pendence Hall ! and there, while the dead of the 
Revolution jjalhered around him — yes crowded the hall and darkened far 
over Independence Square — and there while the widows and the orphans 
of the .Massacred heroes came to the bar, blasting the Kinirly Murderer, 
with their cries and tears — I do regret, that we, the people, did not try ilie 
Traitor-King, the Murderer-Pope for his crimes. ' 

Ah would not that have been a solemn scene ! While the deep groans 
the orplians wail sadly like organ-music pealing from tlie grave, while the 
dead gather round thronging to the witness-seat — yes, here, come the .Minis- 
ters of Religion kneeling around the Felon-King — with the Book of God 
in their hands, ihey pray for his guilty soul — they bid him pi>.^pare for the 
judgment of the people. They point to yonder square — they point to the 
Scaffold — the axe ! George of England, prepare ! This day convicted of 
Treason to the people, convicted of wholesale Murder, committed upon a 
■whole Nation — •'This day you die J" 

Ah, would not that have been a sight for a world to see ? To have laid 
his anointed head upon the block — to have sent him down, the shades 
death, the dead around iiim, and the curses of millions in his ears ! 

Then to have written over his grave — " Here ties the Traitor-King, con- 
victed of AIi'RDER and sentenced to death one month after the capture of 

YORKJOWN !"' 

But we are in Paris again — again we stand in that wide hall, where Louis 
of France, awaits his fate. 

Hark ! at this moment as the vote is about to be taken, a man short in 
stature, yet with a bold brow rises yonder — rises and pleads for the life of 
the Traitor-King ! 

Yes, with outstretched hands, an earnest voice, a gleaming eye, that man 
pleads for the life of Louis of France ! 

Let us not, he exclaims, stain our glorious cause, even with the blood of 
a King! all punishments of death, are abhorrent in the eyes of God ! Let 
us tell to the world that we found this King guilty of Treason, Treason to 
his People ! But that we scorned to t.ike his guilty life ! Punishment by 
death is a libel on God and Man — let us spare the Traitor-King ! Let us 
remember that his Government with its ocean of crimes, had one redeem- 
ing trait — it was this King who gave arms and men to Wasiiingion, in the 
var of the .\merican Revolution I 

Let then these United Stales be the safeguard and asylum of Louis 
Capet. — There, far removed from the miseries and crimes of royally, he 
may learn iliat tlie system of government, consists not in Kings but in the 
People. 

And who was tlie unknown man, who companioaed only by men like La 



I 



KING GUILLOTINE. 433 

Fayette, stood there pleading for the life of the King ? Who was this 
Stranger, tiiat wliile all around were scowling deatli in his face, dared lo beg 
ihe life of the Traitor-King? 

Ah that little man who stood there, alone in ihat breathless hall, with 
sucli niighly eloquence wanning ovnr his lofiy brow ? 

Tiiat litllo man was one of that illustrious band, wlio had been made 
citizens of France — France the Redeemed and New Born ! Yes, with 
Macintosh, Franklin, Hamilton, .lolTerson and Washington, he had been 
elected a citizen of France — with these great men he hailed the era of the 
French Revolution as the dawn of Ciod's Mdlennium — he had hurried to 
Paris, urged by the same deep love of man, that accompanied liim in the 
darkest hours of tlie American Revolution, — and there, there pleading for 
the Traitor-King, alone in that breathless hull he stood, the Author-Hero, 
Thomas Paine ! 

xi.— king guillotine. 

Need I tell you that his pleading was in vain ? Need I tell you that ere 
the last word died on his lip, up, up, from a thousand souls — up, up, to the 
coiling arose the terrible syllable Death ! 

And the People without, the legions of new-born freemen, extending far 
through the streets of Paris, took up the word — " Death, Death, Death !" 

Now Louis of France — now take from your anointed brows, the holy 
crown, for to day it will not save your royal head ! 

Now Marie Antoinette, fair woman whose soft form has hitherto reposed 
on beds of down, now take from your snow-white bosom that string of 
pearls, for this day they will not save your queenly neck ! 

Need I picture my friends, the terrible scenes, which followed the con- 
demnation of Louis Capet ? 

Now Louis Capet being dethroned, there reigned in Paris another King 
— let us go there through tlie streets black with People, and look at him ! 
There in the centre of this dense crowd, he raises his gory head — there the 
sffn streams over his bloody outlines — there gleams his dripping axe — there 
there, lowering above the heads of millions behold his Bloody Majesty, 
the new Lord of Paris, King Ghillotine ! 

A strantre king have we here — and look there, standing on the scaffold, a 
burly rufhan towers into light, his bared arms red with blood, his hot brow 
covered by a hideous scarlet cap ! That half-clad ruffian is one of the 
Courtiers of the new king, that is The Hangman, Prime Minister lo Kino 
Guill'otine ! 

Now let us take our station by his throne ; let us behold the offerings 
which are brought to King Guillotine ! 

See — the crowd gives way — hark ! That shout ! Louis of France 
kneels, lays his head upon the block — the axe falls ! Behold the lirst 
ofterintr to the Bloody .Majesty of France— Kino Guillotine ! 



434 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 177C. 

Look — another scene breaks on our view ! 'I'lie soft lijrht of morning 
breaks over these palaces, over the spires of Notre Dame — the crowd give 
way. 

Great Heaven, what sight is this ! 

'J'he crowd give way — a lovely woman comes Irrmbling up the scalTold- 
Hteps ! 

Oh. liow beautiful ! Life in iicr eyes, on her dewy lip, life in her young 
veins, life on the white bosom, that heaves tremulously into light. 

Look ! with one rude grasp the Hangman tears'aside the robes from that 
white bosom — she kneels — Ob. (Jod ! 

Is not tiiat a fair and beautiful neck to lay upon the block ! Site kneels 
— the axe glimmers — falls ! 

Ah, can that head roiling there like a football, beneath the Executioner's 
feet, that head with (he long hair ilabbled in blood, can that be the head of 
Marie Antoinette of France ? 

Now let us wait by King Guillotine all day long — here, from the death- 
carts tumbled out upon the scallold— hero old man and maid, bore Port, 
Warrior, Felon, here they come ! They kneel — hark ! The sound of the 
falling axe ! The sawdust of the scaflold is drunk with blood — there is a 
pile of human heads rising in the light ! Behold the oflerings to King 
Guillotine ! 

Thus from morning till night, that axe glimmers and falls ! Thus from 
morning till night, King Guillotine plies his task — the gutters of Paris run 
blood, down to the waters of the Seine — the graveyards are full. King 
(iuillotine knows not where to bury his dead — tiic stones of the prison 
yards are taken up— deep pits are dug — iiere bring your dead-carts, here 
into these yawning cavities, pitch them all, the warrior with his mangled 
form, the old man with his groy hair, Uie maiden with her trampled bosom 
— here pitch them all, and let the earth hide these oflerings to King 
Guillotine. 

Now search the streets of Paris for the noblest and purc-souled Patriots 
of the Revolution — and search in vain ! They are gone — La Fayette and 
Paine, and all the heroes are gone. In their place speaks that great orator, 
Kino Guillotine. 

xii— truth from the carnage. 

And here, my friends, let us for a moment pause, even amid these rivers 
of blood, to look the Great Truth of the French Revolution in the face : 

Shall L because the blood is yonder in curdling pools, shall I declare that 
the Principle of the French Revolution was wrong ? 

No ! No ! No ! 

F'or it was for this same principle that Jesus toiled — endured — died ! It 
was for this Principle that every man is alike the child of God, that the 
tears of Gethsemane fell, that the groans of Calvary arose ! 



I 

I 
I 



TRUTH FROM THE CARNAGE. 435 

Shall I, bpcanso the hlood (lows in rivers in Ihe strools of France, declare 
truth to be a liar — prate of tlie atrocities of the Revolution — or sing psalms 
over the graves of tyrants anil kings ? 

Remen.ber, my friends — and O, write this trulh upon your liearls — that 
this French Revolution was the first effort of Man, to assert his rigiits since 
the crucifixion of tiie Saviour. 

Remember, that between the Death of the Blessed Redeemer and the Era 
of the French Revolution, every atrocity that the imagination of the devils 
could invent, had been heaped upon mankind, liy Kings and Priests in the 
name of God. 

Remember — wherever Bigotry has roared her temples, there has the 
name of God been polluted by the foul lips of Priests 

The Hindoo Mother gives her child to the Ganges, in the name of God — 
the car of the Juggernaut crushes its thousands, in tiie name of God ! 

In a single war — a war that swept over Germany and Bohemia — nine 
million souls went down to one bloody grave, because their King and his 
Priests quarrelled in relation to this great question — whether a Church 
should have a cross, whether a Preacher should say his prayers in Latin 
or Dutch ! And then after the war was over, booted Priests and gowned 
troopers, shouted the holy name of God, over a land which could show no 
fruits, than the graves of nine million people ! 

In this fair land of the New World, the children of the forest were hunted 
and butchered in the name of God ! That name mingled with the blood- 
hound's yell. In this land, helpless women and aged men were soonrged 
and burnt to death by grim sectarians, who calmly gazed upon tlie writhing 
and blackened flesh of their vicliuis, and shouted Glory to the name of 
God! 

In this name, earth has been desolated ten thousand times, and ten thou- 
sand times again. In this name, tlie gardens of the world have lieen trans- 
formed into howling deserts ; the heart of man changed into the heart of a 
devil — in this name home has been made a hell. 

These things have been done in the name of God I You may say that 
they were the work of ignoranoe, of superstition, of fanalaeism, but still that 

blistering fact stands out from the brow of history These things were 

done in the name of God ! 

And shall I therefore declare, that God is a Lie ? Shall I therefore de- 
clare, that his Book is a Fable ? Sliall I, because the name of God has 
been polluted, his holy word jirofaned, shall I declare, that there is no God 
— no Revelation ? 

As well these absurdities, as declare that the Principle of the French 
Revolution — all men are alike, the children of God — is false, because that 
Principle was profaned by deeds of Massacre — by his bloody Majesty, 
King Guillotine. 

Remember, my friends, as you are gazing here, upon this immense crowd, 



436 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

in wliose midst that CJiiillotine is butcherins^ its hiiiulrcds and tlioiisands, 
romemher iilso to gaze upon yonder balcony, projecling from tiie wall of 
llic I'alace of llie Kings of France ? 

Well — what of tliBt balcony 

AVliy, my friends, on that balcony, not a Inindrcd years ago, stood Royal 
Charles of France, while the darkness of night was broken by the flames 
of St. Bartholomew ! 

Yes, there he stood, gazing with a calm religious joy, upon the murder 
old men, women, little children, — going forward in the streets below ! Yes, 
there, with that Womnn-Fiend, Catharine of Medici, liy his side, there stood 
the King, with his nnis(iuet in his hand, shooting down his own people — 
and as that old man is writhing there, as that woman falls, crushed by his 
shot — while the groans of three hundred thousaiul human beings, murdered 
in a single night, between the setting and the rising of the sun, go up to 
Heaven, He, the King, solemnly calls upon Jesus and on God ! 

Multiply the victims of the F"'rcnch Revolution by ten myriads, and ihey 
will not make a mole hill, beside the mountain of vieliras of Religious 
bigotry, who have been murdered in the name of GOD. 

XIII.— THE REIGN OF TIIE KING OF TEHIIOR. 

But while the orgies of the Revolution are filling Paris with horror, let 
us search for Thomas Paine ! 

He is not in his home — nor in the Convention, nor in the streets — then 
where is he ? 

Come with me, at dead of night, and I will show you a strange 
scene. 

In the central chamber of yonder Royal palace, a solitary, dim, flickering 
light burns in the socket. 

Yes, a solitary light stands in the centre of that chamber, stands on the 
table there, flinging its feeble rays out upon the thick darkness of that room. 

It is a spacious chamber, but you can discover nothing of its lofty doors 
— nothing of the tapestry that adorns ils walls — for all save that spot in the 
centre of the chamber, where the light is burning, all is darkness. 

I ask you to steep your souls in the silence, in the gloom of this place, 
and then listen to that creaking sound of an opening door — that low — steal- 
thy footstep. 

Behold a figure advances — stands there with one hand on the table — 

It is the figure of a slenderly formed man dressed in the extreme of 
dandyism — a jaunty blue coat — spotless white vest, lined with crimson 
satin — a faultlessly while cravat. 

There is a diamond on his bosom — ruffles round his wrists. 

Look for a moment at his face— the features small and mean — the hue a 
discolored yellow ; the eyes bleared and blood-shot. Who is this puny, 



THE FALL OF KING GUILLOTINE. 437 

trembling daiuly, who stands here, with that paper in his hand at dead of 

night? 

Tiiat puny dandy, is the King of King Guillotine, that is Maximilian 
Robespierre ! The paper that he grasps in his sallow hands, is a letter 
from King Robespierre to King Gullntine ! Eighty victims are to feed tlie 
sawdust and tlie axe to-morrow : their names are on that paper. 

And now as we stand here in this Palace Hall, gazing upon this Blood- 
tiiirsly dandy, let us look at his malicious lip, how it wrillies, at his blood- 
shot eye, how it gleams with spite and liatc. Tiiese eighty victims sacra- 
ficed ; eighty of the noblest and the best of France ; then the Guillotine 
can be locked up forever, then the name of Robespierre, will be lost in the 
name of his supreme equality, Maximillen, the First, King of France ! 

And as he stands there, the full liglit of the lamp, streaming over his dis- 
colored face ; let us look over his siioulder ; let us read tlic names on this 
death-scroll ! 

There are the names of Hero-men, of Hero-women, and first in the 
scroll, you see the names of Madame La Fayette and Thomas Paine. 

Yes, the eye of Robespierre gleams with a terrible liglit, as he it rests 
upon that name ; the name of the most delermiued foe. 

Thomas Paine ! To niglit he paces the damp floor of his sleepless-cell 
—-to-morrow into ihe death-cart, and on to the Guillotine — ho, ho, so ends 
the Author-hero, Thomas Paine .' 

XIV.— THE FALL OF KINC; (ilJlLLOTINE. 

Let us take one bold look, into the Hall of the National Assembly, on 
the next day ! What see we here ? 

Here are the best, the bravest, aye and the bloodiest of all France, sitting 
silent — speechless — awed, before that orange-visaged dandy, who crouches 
on the Tribune, yonder ! 

Not a man in that crowd, dares speak ! Robespierre— tiie Guillotine, 
Terror, have taken fast hold upon their hearts ! Every man in that dense- 
ly-thronged hall looks upon his neighbor with suspicion ; for every other 
man, there is already singled out as the victim of the orange-laced King, in 
the snow-white vest! It is not known who the next victim shall be; 
where the tyrant will next strike and kill ! 

Robespierre has carried his list of death ; has made his fiery speech : 
France, the people, the bloody and the brave, sit crouching in that hall, 
before that slender man, with blood-shot eyes ! 

Robespierre in fact is King— do you see, that biting smile stealing over 
his witliered face ! There is triumph in that mockery of a smile ! 

At this awfid moment, when all is silence in the crowded hall— behold- 
that unknown man, rising yonder, far from the 'I'nbune— that unknown man, 
who trembling from head to foot, pale as a frozen corpse,— rises and speaks 

a word that turns all eyes upon him : 

53 



438 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

" Room !" lie whispers ; and yet liis wliisper is lieard in every heart-^ 
" Room there ye dead !" 

lie pauses, with his eye fixed on vacancy . All is still — the Conven- 
tion hold their breath — even Robespierre listens 

*" Itooni there ye dead !" again wiiispcrs that unknown man ; and then 
pointing to the white-vested Tyrant, his voice rises in a sliriek — " Room ye 
dead ! Room there — Room ye ghosts — room in hell for the soul of Maxi- 
niilien Robesi)ierre !" 

Like a voice from the grave, that word starUes the Convention — look ! 
Robespierre has risen — coward as he is, that voice has palsied his soul. 

I3ut the unknown man does not pause ! In that some deep tone, he heaps 
up the crimes of Robespierre in short and fiery words, he calls the dead 
from their graves to witness the atrocities of tiie Tyrant ; trembling with 
the great deed he has taken upon himself, he shrieks. Go, tyrant, go ! 
Go, and wash out your crimes on the gory sawdust of King Guillotine !" 

From that hour, Robespierre the Tyrant was Robespierre, the convicted 
criminal ! Look ! Covered with shames and scorns, he rushes from the 
hall — Hark ! The report of a pistol ! What does it mean ? 

Let us away to King Guillotine and ask him ! 

Ha ! Give way tliere I'aris, give way, who is it that comes here — comes 
through the maddened crowd ; who is it, that more dead than living, comes 
on, shrinking, crouching, trembling, to the feet of Holy King Guillotine ? 

Ah ! That horror-stricken face, yes, that face with that bloody cloth 
bound around the broken jaw — look ! even through that cloth, the blood 
drips slowly ; he bleeds, it is Robespierre ! 

Grasped in the arms of men, whom the joy of this moment has mad- 
dened into devils, he is dragged up to the scafluld 

One look over the crowd — great Heaven, in all that mass of millions, 
there is no blessing for Maxim ilien Robespierre ! 

" Water !" shrieks the Tyrant, holding his torn jaw, " Water, only a cup 
of water !" 

Look — his cry is answered ! A woman rushes up the scaflbld — a woman 
who yesterday was a mother, but now is widowed, because Robespierre and 
Death have grasped her boy. 

" Water ?" she echoes ; " Blood, tyrant, blood ! You have given France 
blood to drink — you have drank her blood ! Now drink your own !" 

Look^-oh, horror — she drags the bandage from his broken jaw — he is 
bathed in a bath of his own blood. Down on the block, tyrant ! One 
gleam of the axe — hurrah for brave King Guillotine ! 

There is a head on the scaffold — and there, over the headless corse, 
stands that Widow, shrieking the cry she heard in the Convention to-day : 
" Room ye dead! Room — for the Soul of Maximilien Robespierre !" 

* This phrase occurs in Bulwcr's Zanoni. 



THE BIBLE. 439 



XV.— THE BIBLE. 



We liave seen Tliomas Paine standing alone in the Judgment Hall of the 
French Nation, pleading — even amid that sea of scowling faces — for the life 
of King Louis. 

We have seen him with AVashington, Hamilton, Macintosh, Franklin, 
and JelTerson, elected a Citizen of France. With these great men, he 
hailed the dawn of the French Revolution as the breaking of God's Millen- 
nium ; as the first great effort of Man to free liimself from the lash and 
chain, since the crucifixion of tlie Saviour. 

But soon the dawn was overcast; soon the light of burning rafters flashed 
luridly over scenes of blood ; soon all that is grotesque, or terrible, or loath- 
some in murder, was enacted in the streets of Paris. The lantern posts 
bore their ghastly fruit ; the streets flowed with crimson rivers, the life- 
blood often thousand hearts, down even to the waters of the Seine. King 
Louis was dead ; but this was not all. Liberty was dead also ; butchered 
by her fireside. 

In her place reigned an orange-faced Dandy, with shrivelled cheeks and 
blood-shot eyes. La Fayette and Paine, and all the heroes were gone from 
the councils of France, but in their place, aye, in the place of Poetry, 
Enthusiasm and Eloquence, spoke a mighty orator — King Guillo- 
tine ' 

For eleven months, Thomas Paine lay sweltering in a gaol, the object of 
the fierce indignation of Maximilien Robespierre. At last there came a day 
when he was doomed ; when his name was written in the Judgment List 
of the orange-faced Dandy. 

Let us go to the prison, even to the Palace Prison of the Luxemburg. It 
is high noon. A band of eighty, clustered around that prison door, silently 
await their fate. Here amid white-haired old men, here amid trembling 
women, all watching for the coming of the death messenger, — here, silent, 
stern, composed, stands the author-hero, Thomas Paine 

Soon that prison door will open ; soon the death cars will roll ; soon the 
axe will fall, and these eighty forms, now fired with the last glow of life, 
will be clay. 

But look — the gaoler comes ! A man of dark brow and savage look ; his 
arms bared to the shoulder, displaying the sinews of a giant. He comes, 
trudging heavily through the crowd of his victims, the massive key of the 
Palace Prison in his hand. He stands for a moment, looking gloomily over 
> the faces of his prisoners ; he places the key in the lock. Then the gloom 
Vyanishes from his rough face ; a look of frenzied joy gleams from liis eyes ; 
his brawny chest swells with a maniac shout. 



440 TiiF. rounni or Jri.Y. kig. 

" Oo forlli !" lio shrieks, nisliiiijT the first throHgh the opencil gates ; " go 
forth, young and olil ; go forth all !— :/t>r CiiliUne Kobrspierre in dead!" 

And I'orlh — whiln Iho air is lillrd \vill» frenzied shrii-ks of joy — forth from 
tlio I'alaeo I'rison wallis llie freed hero, the Man of Two Rovohuions, 
Thomas l'aii\e. 

Now eonies the darkiv-il hour of liis life. Now comes llie hour wlien we 
shall weep for Genius profaned ; when we shall sec the great and miglity, 
fallen from the pedestal of his t;li>ry into llio very sink of |)olhition. 

Now let us follow the path of 'I'honias I'aine, as his first step is to reelaim 
the Manuscript of a work wliieh he wrote eleven months ago, before his 
entranee into prison. lie fjrasps that package of Maiuisoripl again ; let us 
look at its title : " 'I'iik Aok ok Rkason." 

Here, my friends, let us pause for a moment. Let us ask that man of 
the hi!;h brow, the eloquent eye, the face stamped with a great soul — let us 
ask Thomas I'aine, as ho goes yonder through the streets of Paris, to do a 
great and holv de<-d ? 

That deed — what is it ? 

Let lis ask him to lake the Mamiscript in his hand, to tear it in twain, 
nnd hurl the fragments there, bei\eath the dripping axe of the (Guillotine. 

Yes, lei the liuillotiue doits last work upon this Manuscript of Falsehood ; 
let the last descent of (he gory axe fall on its polluted pages. For while 
this "Ago of Reason" speaks certain great Thoughts, anuounoing the author's 
belief in a (lod and Immortality — thoughts derived from the lliblc — it is 
still a jest book, too vile to name. 

It is true, it speaks of (>od and Immortality ; but it also heaps its vilo 
jests, its vulgar scorn upon Jesus, the Redeemer of Man, and Mary the 
Virgin Mother. 

Let me tell you at once, my friends, that I stand here to-night, a preju- 
diced man. Let me at once confess, that it has ever been my study, my 
love, to bend over the dim pages of the Hebrew volume — to beliold the 
awful form of .Ichovah pending over chaos; to hear that voice of poinipo- 
tence resound thritugh the depths of spare, as these words break tin my 

BOUl : " V.WOMKK Al.OllKlM : VKHKK A!'K V.WKllKE AlK !" ffitK Spake 

God : Ifl there br lis;ht and lis;ht ihfrt was!" ' 

Or vet again, to behold that .leliovah, descended from the skies, Avalking 
yoitder witlt the Patriarchs, yonder where the palms arise, and the tents 
wliiten over the plain. Or, in the silence of night, to look there, through 
the lone wilderness, where the Pillar of Fire beacons Moses the Deliverer 
towards the Promised Land ; or to enter the solemn temple of Jerusalem, 
and behold the same Jehovah, shining in the holiest place, shining over th« 
Ark of the Covenant, so awfully serene, yet sublime. 

Let me tell you, that I have becit with the Arab, Job. as he talked faro 
to face with God, and in images of divine beauty, spoke tortli the vvrithings 
of his soul : as in words that your orators of Greece and Rome never jpok» 



or (Iroamod, lip piclurps the litllonoss of life, the MMJosty of Omnipolpnco, 
llio SHOot, il(';ir rest nl' llic iiiitiiMililtHl grave. " Tlicro tlu! wiukud coase 
from troiibliiii; ami llu' weary he al rest." 

1 havo liciil ovor tliis Now 'reslament, aiul Iraccil the path of CJoi! a.s lio 
walked the earth ciisliriiicd in lumiaii llosli. Is there no hoaiity hero, to 
warm the heart ami fire the hraiii ? Even as we road, docs not the faeo 
of Jesus start fiom the page— that face that painter never painted, with its 
soreno lliviiiily lotikiii;'- out fnun ihe clear, deep eves. 'I'hat face which 
wo may iinafiine, with its llowiiin; liair falling;: ivently down iVom llin hrow 
where " God" is writleii in every outline, with the lips wreathing willi snch 
eternal love for poor forsalicn man, whether ho .sweats in tlii^ workxho|) or 
provels in the mine. Yes, I have followed that face, as it appeared above 
the hill-top al even, in the i;olden twiliirht of Palestine, and approached the 
Poor Man's hut, and shone in the dark window, upon the hard crust of tho 
slave. How the Poor rose up to welcome that face ; how rndo men bent 
down heforo it and wept ; how tond(T women knelt in its liiilit and );a/.ed 
in those Divine eyes ! Then how the voice of .Icsns rung out upon the 
air, speaking in dark iiuts great words that shall never die ! 

Yes, I have followed that Man of Nazareth over stony roads, by tho 
waves of (ialileo, into the Halls of I'dalo ; ami there — yes, up tho awful 
clills of Calvary, when Jerusalem poured thronj^h its gales hy tens of thou- 
sands, under the tiarkeiicd heavens, over the groaning earth, to look uj)on 
the face of the dying (Jod, as the heavy air rung with that unspeakablo 
agony ; " My (Jod, my (iod, wliy hast llion fi)rsak(Mi mo !" 

JiCt nio at once cotifess, that if the Hihle is a l''al)le, it is a fahh' more 
b?autiful than all the classics of Greece and Kome. Paint for me yoiu- 
Cicero and Demosthenes in all their glory, and 1 will paint you that hold 
forehead and those earnest eyes of [Saint I'aul, as, rising from his midnight 
toil, his voice echoes the words he has just written ; those words that live 
forever, as though each word was an Immortal Soul — 

In a momrnt, in a Iwvikliiif: of the eye, at the hint trump, for the 
trumpet shall snutul, and the dead shall he railed inrorruptiblr, and we 
. shull be chunji^ed. 

* > For this eorrupHon tnnut put on incorruplion, and this mortal must 
pjt on immortalili/. 

Search your I'oels for scenes of that (juiet pathos which at once mells 
and elevates the soul — search your Homer, your Shakspearc ; search them 
all, the venerable Seers of Ages, and I will point you to a single lino that 
l)Uls them all to shame! It is in the Now Testament, where Jesus tho 
('hrist is dead and buried. It is on that serene morning, when tho sun- 
b iams shine over the sepulchre of the Saviour. 'I'hrce women, the blessed 
Maries, come there to weep over the body of their Lord. Yes, all the 
w orUl lias forsaken him : all save Peter the Faithless yet I-ion-hearted, 
John llie lioloved, and lliese three women. They look into tho Be])ulchre 



44% THE FOURTH OF JULY, ITTS. . 

— it is empty. The grave-clothes are there, but the Lord is gone. At 
tills niomenl, a poor, abaniloiieJ woman, whom the good Christ liaJ lifted 
up to virtue and forgave, even as she washed his feet with her tears — yes, 
at this moment, sad, tearful, Mary Magdalene approaches a being whom she 
mistakes for the gardener. Listen to the words of scripture. This being 
speaks : 

" Woman, why weepest thou ?"' 

She, supposing him to be the gardener, said unto him, 

" Sir, if thou hast borne him hence, tell me where tliou hast laid him, 
and I will lake him away." 

Jesus saith unto her, " 3Jary .'" 

She tumetl herself and said unto him, " Master !" 

This is all tiie gospel says of the matter, but is not this one line full of 
eternal beauty : " Jesus saith unto her, ' !Mary !' " No long explanations, 
no elaborate phrase, no attempt to awe or surprise ; but one simple word, 
that word her name, spoken in the tones she loved to hear. 

Can you not hear his voice, speakin? in those well-remembered tones ? 
Can you not see his hand extended in a jesture of benediction, as his eye 
lights up with an expression of brotherly tenderness ? 

That one scene by the sepulchre, where the Magilalene, an image of 
beauty purified by reliijion, bends delighted before the serenely divine face 
of the risen Jesus, while the sunbeams of that calm dawn fell geuUy over 
the grave-clothes which no longer clasp the dead — that one scene, sublime 
in its very simplicity considered as a mere composidon, is worth all the 
pathos of Greece and Rome. 

Yes, if the Bible is a fable, it is a fable more beautiful than all the iron- 
hearted sophistry of your cold-blooded Philosophers— it is a Fable that 
tlirough all lime has ginled up the hearts of patriots on the seatTold and tlie 
batde-tield — it is a Fable that has shone like a glory over ten thousand 
dying beds. If that Bible is a Fable, then is it a Fable that bursts like a 
blaze of love and beauty through the dark cloud of human guilt, and lights 
a way from the dull erave up to Immortality and God. 

Ah, had I been Thomas Paine — had his great brain, his great soul been 
mine, then would I have taken my stand here on the Bible with Jesus. 
Then from this book would I have told the host of hvpocriies who like 
slimy lizards, crawl up on the .\ltar of God and sit there in all their loath- 
someness, then would I have told these mockers of God, that here from this 
Bible, even the mild spirit of Jesus is roused — to rebuke — to scorn — to speak 
terror to Uieir souls I 

Because hypocrites have made merchandize of God's Book, and split his 
cross into pedlar's wares, shall I therefore heap scorn upon that serenely 
beautiful face, looming out from the Bible : that face of Jesus, the Redeemer 
of Man ? Because hvpoorites and kings have taken the seamless robe of 
Christ and parted it into cords, to bind men's necks and hands and hearts. 



THE BIBLE. 443 

am I to clcride that Christ, scorn that Jesus, who stands there forever above 
the rloiids of luiman guilt, the only Redeemer of Man, the only Messiali 
of the Poor ? 

Here was the terrible mistake of Thomas Paine, lie mistook the cloud 
which marred the sun for the sun itself; he mi.slook the a!)usos of men, tlie 
frauds of hypocrites, the lies of fabulists, which have been done and uttered 
in the name of Christianity, for Christianity itself. 

He lived in an age when Liirlit and Darkness struggled together, when 
the earth was convulsed from coltago to throne, lie had done a great deed 
when he wrote that book of "Conuuon Sense," which derives its strongest 
arguments from the Bible, for it quotes the memorable words of the prophet 
Samuel against Monarchy and Kiug-worshippers. This book of Conunou 
Sense, founded on the Hiblc, was the forerunner of the Declaration of lu- 
depeudciu-e. 

But now Paine fell into the deplorable error of mistaking certain wolves, 
who assumed the fleece of religion, for the true sheep of the Lord Jesus. 
He attacked Christianily in this ribald book, written in diat style of contro- 
versial blackguardism, which was first used by pretended followers of Christ, 
who reduced their Master to an Enigma, his religion to a sophistry. This 
pitiable style which makes up in filth what it wants in grandeur, and mis- 
takes a showy falsehood for a solid truth, was used by Paine in his Age of 
Reason. It was beneath him ; far beneath the genius of the man who 
wrote " Common Sense." It has left his name, as the author of tliis work, 
but a wreck on a desert shore ; while that name, when known as the author 
of " Common Sense," is cherished by the wise and good all over the 
land. 

The position which I have assumed in this history is a plain one. No 
one but a fool can mistake it. I found the character of " Thomas Paine, 
Author of Common Sense," wronged and neglected. I took up that char- 
acter, defended it, placed it on tho pedestal where Wasliinglon and Jedcr- 
son had placed it once before. No selfish motive actuated me in this work. 
Paine has no relatives living to thank me ; noi— if my object was money- 
has he any rich friends to pay mc for the task. I think, therefore, that the 
most prejudiced man will acknowledge that my motives here have been 
pure, honest, above all mercenary considerations. 

A fact that speaks for itself, is this : while an Atheistical papkr abuses 
me us a Jiiffnt, anolhcr paper, e:ovemed liy no particular moralilij or be- 
lief, but stippli/ing the place of Ueligion with Bii^otry, culls me an—In- 
fidcll Does not this speak volumes .' In tliis case extremes meet, fur the 
snake puts his tail in liis mouth. 

Without one sordid motive, without one base fear, have I called up the 
records of the past, the voices of the dead, to testify the character and 
genius of Thomas Paine, the Author of Common Sense. 

And now, without one sordid motive, without one base fear, do 1 record 



444 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

my sorrow ihat a man like tliis should have wrillen so pahr}- a book as the 
Age of Keason ; my (letfsl;Uion of llie style and princiiiles of ihat work ; 
my pity for the individual who, in our day, could be turned from his !Sa- 
viour by arguments and sneers so puerile as are wrillen in its pages. 

For the Rclisrion of Josus is not a thing of an hour or a day, that it 
should be undermined bv a sneer or crushed by a falsehood. It is built up 
in loo many hearts, it brings too much hope lo poor desolate man, it holds 
out too glittering beacons of Immorlality, ever lo die. When it survived 
the wounds it received from pretended friends during a course of eighteen 
hundred years, shall it die of a single Voltaire or I'aine ? The Christianity 
of the heart, which cheers us in toil, lights our homes with a gleam from 
God's heaven, smoothes our pillow in sickness, and in the sad, stern hour 
of death, sings hymns to our parting soul and leads it gently home to lin- 
niorlalily — Can ibis Religion of the heart ever die ? 

Speak, Mother, bending over your child, as you tell him of the Jesus who 
gathered the little chililren to his breast — can this Religion die ? Speak, 
Father, old man. now bending beside your daughter's corse, gazing upon 
that face cold in death, with your earnest eyes, speak and tell us ! Can a 
Religion that comforts you in an hour like this, that assures you your child 
is not dead but p^one home, can this Religion die ! Speak, slave of the 
workshop and mine, now toiling on for a hard crust, with llie sweat on 
your brow, the agony in your heart — can this Religion die ? This Religion 
which tells you that God himself did not disdain to take the form of a man 
of toil, in order to make your fate belter in this world, and give you Im- 
mortality in the next ? — Speak, Bigot — even you, whom Christ pities and 
forgives — even you, last object of imbecility and malice — speak and tell us ! 
Can a Religion that stoops so far in its mercy, as to save you, ever die f 

Speak, Universal Man, and answer us ! Can a Religion which binds 
itself to your heart, links its eternal form with your joys and sorrows, hopes 
and fears, soothes you in toil and sickness, appeals to your imagination 
with its images of divine loveliness, elevates you with its Revelation of Im- 
nioriality from a mere lump of day almost into Godhead — Can this Religioa 
of the heart ever die ? 

Here is the mournful lesson of Thomas Paine's life: .? great man,tehen 
he utters a great truth, raises hiin-ie/f lo th'e dignity of an Angel : the 
same great man, uttering a Lie, degrades himself below the beast. 

AVhen Thomas Faine wrote " Common Sense," he uttered a Tnilh, 
(founded on the Bible,) which aroused a whole Continent to its destiny. 
For this we honor him. 

AViien the same Thomas Paine wrote the ' Age of Reason,' he uttered an 
Error, opposed to the Bible and in direct contradiction of his former work, 
Common Sense. For this we pity him. 

The etVect of the " Age of Reason," has long since passed awav, but the 
good work of "Common Sense," is seen in litis great spectacle of Twenty- 



THE DEATH-BED OF THOMAS PAINE. 445 

nine Commonwealths, combined in one great Republic, exlendiiip; from ilie 
Aroostook to the Rio Graniio. 

Have I made myself sufficiently plain ? — Has that man a well-balanced 
mind who can now mistake my position i If there is such a man within 
sound of my voice, I would remind hint that it is my duly to supply him 
with information, but a Divine Power alone can furnish widi brains. 

Again I repeat — had 1 been Thomas Paine, 1 would have learned this 
great truth : Tiie path of the true Reformer is not against, but ever and ever- 
more with Jksus. 

XVI.— THE DEATH-BED OF THOMAS PAINE. 

Come with me to that hcii\tr Island shore — come widi me to the farm of 
New Rochelle, where an old man is dying. 

Let us enter this rude and neglected room. There, on yonder bed, with 
the June breeze — oh, it is sweet with the perfume of laud and ocean, — with 
tlie June breeze blowing softly tiirough the open window — witii gleams of 
June sunlight upon his brow — there, propped up by pillows, on his death- 
bed, sits an old man. 

That form is shrunk — that face stamped witli the big wrinkles of nge and 
alcohol — yet the brow still looms out, a lower of thought, the eye still glares 
from that wreck of a face — glares with soul. 

He is dying. Death in the trembling hands— death in the brightening 
eyes — deatii in every bead of sweat upon llie brow. 

And who is iiere to comfort that old man >. Wife, child ? Ah, none of 
tliese arc here ! No sofdy-whispered voice speaks love to the passing 
soul— no kind and tender hand puts back the grey hair from tlie damp 
brow. 

Yet still that old man sits there against the pillow, silent, calm, firm. 

Softly blow the June breezes— sofdy pours the mdd sunlight- sunlight 
and breezes, he is about to leave forever, and yet he is firm. 

Oh, tell me, my friends, why does this death-room seem so awfully still 
and desolate ? 

It is not so much because there is no wife, no child here— not because 
there is no kind hand to smooth back the grey hairs from the damp brow- 
but O, Father of souls — 

Here in this still room, with its poor furnimre, its stray sunlight, and its 
summer breeze,— here, in this still room, there is no mildly-beautiful face 
of Jksus, the redeemer, to look upon the old man, to gleam beside his bed, 
to smile immortality in iiis glazing eyes. 

This makes the room so awfully still and desolate. 

There is no Jesus here ! 

Yes, without a word of recantation on his lip— firm to his belief- one 
God, and no Jesus— firm to his stoical creed, which is all reason and no 

54 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1T76. 

faiil), the old man, Thomas Paine, picks at the coverliJ, and takes death 
cahnly bv the Imnd. 

Now look, in this dread liour two men come forwanl, a Doctor and a 
Preacher. What is tlieir mission here ! Do they take the old man's liands 
wilhin their own. and clial'e away the deatli-chill ? Oh, no ! 

AVhile one has note and pencil in Itand, tiie otiier leans over the bed. 
Don't you see his pitiful, whining face ? He leans over the bed and whis- 
pers, or rather screeches, — Mister Paine, we wisii to know whether you 
have clianged your religious opinions .' Do you believe in our creed .' 

And while the Doctor is ready, with his pencil, the Preacher leans gasp- 
ingly there — awaits liis answer ! 

Does not this scene disgust you ? There are two pedlars of death-bed 
confessions, waitinii to catch the last gasp of poor Tom Paine ! 

Do you think, my friends, that the cause of Christ depends upon narrow- 
souled bigots like these — who, instead of placing the cup of cold water to 
the lips of the death-stricken, come here, around the death-bed, smelling of 
creeds, and brealliin* cant all the while — and insult, with their paper and 
pencil, ilie last hours of a dying old man ? 

Would your Fenelon, your Luther, your Wesley, have done thus ? 
Would your Bishop White, or your Channing, talked to a dying man, with 
' paper and pencil in hand, instead of moistening his lips with the cup of 
water, or sooiliing his soul with the great truths of Christ! Nay — would 
the blessed Redeemer himself', who ever lit'ked up the bowed head, ever for- 
gave the iremblint; sinner, ever reached forth the arms o{ his Godhead to 
snatch despair ironi its sins and woes — would he have entered thus the 
chamber of a dying man, to talk of creeds, when there was a soul to be 
redeemed ! The thouglit is blasphemy ! 

Now listen to the only answer, wliat these bigots could expect. The 
old man looked in their faces, stamped with the petty lines of sectarian 
Pharicaism, and answered — 

" / have no desire to believe in ani^thing of the kiiui J" says the old man, 
and turned his t'ace to ilie wall. 

At this moment, look I Another man appears on the scene. He is 
dressed in the garb of a Quaker. He pushes the bigots aside — waves these 
Pencillers from the room, and then — God's blessing upon his head — takes 
the old man by the hand, and silently smooths back the damp hair I'rom his 
brow. 

Paine looks his speechle.«s thanks to that stout-hearted Quaker's face. 

" Friend Thomas," says the Friend, •• trust in Christ. He died for thee. 
His mercy is tatliomless as the sea '." 

Never did the plain coat and broad-brimmed hat look more like an .\ngers 
garb than then. Not even in tlie hour when William Penn, under the Elm 
of Shackamaxon, spoke immortal words to rude red men. Never did the 
Quaker " thee" and *> thou" sound more lovely, more like aa augei's tongue, 



THE DEATH-BED OF THOMAS PAINE. 417 

than then ! Not even wlicn, (Voni tlio lips of Apostle William, il sent forth 
from the shores of Delaware, to all the world, the great message of Peace 
and Toleration. 

Thomas Paine grasped that Quaker hy the hand, and gazed in his face 
with dim eyes. 

Now, my friends, do not let your hearts falter, hut go with mo to the end 
of this scene. What is the mission of this Quaker to the author of " Com- 
mon Sense?" Why, he has been aliroad all the morniug, trying to .secure 
a grave — a quiet, secluded, unknown resting-place for Tojn I'ainc. He has 
been to all the churches — all ! For a dark thought troiiblcs ihc last hours 
of Paine, the thought that his remains will rest unhonored, above ground, 
unsheltered by the repose of a grave. 

This w.as but human, after all. He believed his soul wotild not die. He 
did not wish the aged clay which enshrined that soul to be the object of 
contempt or insult, after his death. 

Now look — wliile the Quaker grasps his hand, die dying man looks in 
liis face. 

" Will tliey," he niurnuMs in a husky whisper, " will they give me a 
grave ?" 

The Quaker turns his head away. Ho cannot answer. SliU Paine 
clutches that hand — slill repeals the question. At last, with tears in his 
eyes, with choking utterance, the Quaker gasps a syllable : 

" No ! Friend Paine — no ! I have been to them all — to all the (Christian 
churches — all ! And all — yea, all of these followers of Jesus, who forgave 
the thief on the Cross — all refuse thy bones a grave !" 

That was a crushing blow for poor Tom Paine. That was the last drop 
in the full cup of his woe ; the last kick of Uigotry against the skull of a 
dying old man. 

He never spoke again. 

As if this last scorn of these Infulel-Chrislians had gathered his heart 
and crushed it like a vice, then the old man silently released his hand from 
the grasp of the (iuakcr — silently folded his arms over his breast — dropped 
his head slowly down, and was — di:ad ! 

Now look yonder, as the soul of that old man goes up to judgment — look 
there, as the soul of Thomas Paine stands arrayed before that face of Infi- 
nite Mercy, and answer me ! 

Who would not sooner be Tom Paine — there, before that bar of Jesus 
— with all his virtues and errors about him, than one of the misguided 
bigots who refused his bones a grave ? 

Think of the charity whicli Ji^sus preached liefore you answer ! 

And as we quote the terrible truth of those words, which I found written 
in an old volume, in the dim cloisters of the Franklin Library — 

" He has no name. The cotin/n/ for tvhkh he labored and suffered, 
'mows him not. His ashes rest in a foreign land. A rough, grass-grown 



448 THK FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 

mound, from which (he bones have been purloined, is all that remains on 
the Continent of America, to tell of the Hero, the Statesman, the friend 
of Man .'" 

I say, as we quote the terrible truth of these words, let us go yonder to 
that deserted spot, near New Rochelle. Let us bend over that deserted 
mound, covered with rank grass, read the inscription on that rough stone, 
and then— .while the Unbeliever is with his God, into wiiose awful councils 
nor bigotry nor hale can enter — let us remember, that this simple monu- 
ment is the only memorial on the Continent of Ameriea, of that Author- 
Hero who first stood forth the Prophet of our rights, the compatriot of 
JelTerson, the friend of Washington, the author of " Common Seuse,'*^ 
poor Tom Paine ! 

Remember, then, that the hand which mouldered to dust, beneath this 
stone, was the first to write the words — 

"The Free and Independent States of America." 



THE LAST DAY OF JEFFERSON AND ADAMS. 449 



XVII— REVIEW OF THE HISTORY. 

This is a strange and crowded history. Not only the great day on which 
the Declaration was signed, and a Continent declared free, has been described, 
but the eternal cause of that Declaration, reaching over a dark chaos of 
eigliteen hundred years, has been recognized in its characters of light and 
beauty. From the day of July the Fourth, 1776, we have gone to the day 
when the world was in mourning for its God — incarnating in the form of a 
mechanic, by the death of shame, on the felon's cross. We have traced the 
great facts of the Rights of Man, from humble Independence Hall, to the 
awful clitV of Oalvary. From Christ the Redeemer, we have followed the 
track of light through the mist of ages, down to his great aposUe, the Paul 
of the seventeeth century, William Penn. • From Penn to Washington and 
Jefterson and Adams and Paine, all human, yet rising into heroes through 
the majesty of their intellect. The career of Paine, — now writing his bold 
book in darkness, hunger and cold, now following the footsteps of Wash- 
ington's army, striking mortal blows with his pen, into the very heart of 
British cruelly — has led us into the vortex of the French Revolution, the 
glorious and bloody child of our own. Through the cloud of that fearful 
time, we have endeavored to follow the track of light, separating its rays 
from the dark shadow of the Guillotine, and beholding its omen of good, 
even above the crimson waves of the Seine. 

Nor have we faltered, when it became our sad task to witness the down- 
fall of Thomas Paine. An awful lesson is conveyed in his sad history. So 
bright the dawning of that star, so dark its going out into hopeless night ! 
Now, the intimate friend of Washington and the other heroes, and again, a 
desolate old man, withered by the bigot's breath, and dying — desolate, O ! 
how desolate and alone ! 

It becomes our task now, to follow four of the Signers, in their way 
through the valley of the shadow of death. We have not space nor time 
to picture the lives of all the signers ; from among the host of heroes, we 
will select but four immortal names. 

From the death-chamber of Paine, to other scenes where the voice of the 
messenger falls on the freezing ear, and his cold finger seals the glassy 
eye. 

XVIII. —THE LAST DAY OF JEFFERSOIST AND ADAMS. 

Fifty years passed away: the Fourth of July, 1770 had been made 
Immortal by its Declaration; the Fourth of July, 1826 was to be forever 
rendered a Holy Day by the hand of Death. 

Ua that serene moniiiig, the sun rose beautifully upon the world, shining 



4Stf THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

upon the great brotherhood «of Slates, extending from the wilds of Maine 
to the Gulf of Mexico, with the Atlantic glitlerinff like a belt of waves and 
beams along its eastern shore, the Mississippi winding four thousand miles 
through its western border, while ruggedly sublime, the Alleghanies towered 
in the centre of the land. 

The same sun, fifty years before, and lighted up with its smile of good 
omen, a litde nation of Thirteen provinces, nestling between the Alleghanies 
and the Atlantic, and fighting even for that space, bounded by mountains 
and waves, with the greatest and bloodiest power in the world. 

The batUe of eight years had been fought ; England foiled in the Revo- 
lution, had been humbled in the dust again ; fifty years had passed away ; 
the thirteen Provinces of this bloody Monarchy, had swelled into Twenty- 
Four States of a Free People. The banner that had waved so gloriously in 
the Revolution, unveiling its Thirteen stars to the blood-red glare of battle, 
now fluttering in the summer morning air, from Home and Church and 
Council Hall, flashed from its folds the blaze of Twenty-Four stars, joined 
in one Sun of Hope and Promise. 

The wild Eagle, who had swooped so fiercely on the British host, some 
Ijfty years ago, now sat calmlv on his mountain crag, surveying his Banner, 
crimsoned with the light of victory, while the peaceful land, beautiful with 
river and valley, blossomed on every side. 

It was the Fourth of July, 18'.J6. From little villages, came joyous bands, 
—white-robed virgins and sinless children — scattering flowers by the way ; 
in the deep forests, the voice of praise and prayer arose to God ; from ilie 
Pulpit the preacher spoke ; beside the old cannon, which had blazed at 
Germantown, stood the veteran of the Revolution, as battered as the cannon 
which he fired : in the wid* cities ten thousand hearts throbbed with one 
common joy : and the flowers that were scattered by the way, the words 
that the Preacher spoke, and the hymn that the forest echoes sent to 
Heaven, the blaze of the cannon and the joy of the wide city, all had one 
meaning : " This land that was o.nce the Province of a Kjng, is now 
THE Homestead of a People !" 

And yet, even while the hearts of fourteen million people palpitated with 
the same joy, there came an unseen and shadowy Messenger, who touched 
two brave hearts with his hand, and froze them into clay. 

Even while the Jubilee of Freedom rung its hosannas from every wood 
and hill. Death was in the land. Silently, wiih that step that never makes 
a sound, wilh that voice which speaks the language of eternity — and which 
we never hear translated untd we die — Death glided into the chambers of 
two heroes, and bade them Home to God ! 

Almost at the same moment, almost within the compass of the same hour, 
two hearts — that once warmed with the passion of freedom, the frenzy of 
eloquence — were stopped in their beatings forever. 
, We will go to the room of old age, we will stand beside the bed of death, 



( 



THE LAST DAY OF JEFFERSON AND ADAMS. 451 

we will see the sunbeams of July the Fourth, 1826, playing over the clammy 
brows of the Brother Heroes. 

The First Home ! 

Does it tiot look beautiful, the very picture of rustic comfort and unpre- 
tending wealth, as it rises yonder on the soil of Massachusetts, the land of 
Hancock and Warren, that mansion with many windows, a porch extending 
along its front, fair flowers and richly foliaged trees blooming from its hall- 
door to the roadside gale ? The hour is very still. It is near high noon. 
You can see the roof, with corniced eaves and balustradcd summit marked 
boldly out, against the deep blue summer sky. 

While the thunder of cannon is in our ears, we will pass the gale, enter 
the hall-door, and glide soflly up the stairs. Softly, for death is here, in llus 
Home of Quinoy. 

With heads bowed low and stealthy tread, we enter the darkened room. 
The sound of gasping breath, the sob of manhood in its agony, the wail of 
women, the music of the summer air among the leaves, all at once rush on 
our ears. 

We enter — and gaze — and start back, awed and dumb. 

All the windows of this room, save one, are dark. Yonder to the east, 
you see that window, its white curtains flung aside, the perfume of the 
garden and the joy of the sunshine gushing through its aperture, into the 
shadowy Death-Chamber. 

Yonder on the thickly curtained bed, an old man is dying. 

Restino- against the pillow, his shrunken form lost in the folds of the 
silken coverlet, he awaits the hour of liis summons, wliile tlie softened sun- 
light plays gently on his brow and the summer breeze plays with his hair. 
That brow is withered into wrinkles, and moistened by the death-sweat, 
yet as you gaze it lights up with the fire of fifty years ago, and the lips 
move and the unclosed eye blazes as though the heart of the Hero was 
back again with the Immortal band of Signers. 

It is"stout-hearted Jolm Adams, siidiing calmly into the surges of death. 
Every moment the waves come higher; llie ice of- the grave comes slowly 
through the congealing veins, up the witliered limbs ; the mist of death 
gathers about the old man's eyes. 

At this moment, while all is still, let us from the crowd of mute specta- 
tors, select a single form. Beside the death pillow, on wliicii his right hand 
rests, gazing in his father's face, his own noble brow batlied in a solitary 
gleam of the sun, he stands, the Son, the Statesman and President. 

Fifty years ago, his father, in the State House of Philadelphia, uttered 
words that became History as they rung from his indignant lips, and now 
wielding the Presidential Sceptre, which his father received from the hand 
of Washington, the Son of the Hero gazes with unspeakable emotion, in the 
face of the dying old man. 

A'xain our eyes wander from the faces of the encircling spectators, to tlie 



43S THE FOURTH OF JULY, 177G. 

visage of the departing hero. So witiiered in ihe brow, so ghastly pale, so 
quivering in tlie lips, so sunken in the cheeks, and yet for all, it siiines as 
with tlie last ray of its closing hour ! 

Hark ! The thunder of cannon, softened by distance, conies through tlie 
window. 'I'he old man hears it ; at once, his eye fires, he trembles up in 
tlie bed, and gazes toward the light. 

"It is — " liis dying voice rings with the lire of fifty years ago — "It is 
the Fourtli of July !" 

That old man, sitting erect in his dcalh-courli, his ghasUy face quivering 
into youth again, may well furnish a picture for the painter's art. Gaze 
upon liiin in this hour of his weakness, when with his lingers blue with the 
death-chill and his brow oozing with the death-sweat, he starts up, and 
knows the voice of the cannon, and answers its me.ssage — " It is, it is the 
Fourth of July!" Gaze upon that wreck of a body, now quivering wiih 
the soul about to leave it forever, quivering and glowing into youth again, 
and tell me, if you can the soul is not immortaj ? 

It was a sight too holy for tears ! The spectators — man and woman and 
child, — feel their hearts hushed with one common feeling, admiration 
iningled with awe. The son winds his arm about his Father's neck, and 
whispers, " Fifty years to-day, you signed the Declaration, which made us 
Free !" 

How the Memory of the old time rushes upon the old man's heart! 
Fifty years ago— the Hall thronged with the Signers — the speech that rung 
from his lips, when his Country's destiny hung palpitating on his words — 
the eloquence of his compatriots, JetVerson slaiiding in the foreground of a 
group of heroes, Hancock smiling serenely over the crowd, in front of the 
old Siate House hall — it rushed upon his soul, that glorious memory, and 
made him live again, with the men of "76. 

Higher rose the waves of death ! Higher mounted the ice of the grave ! 
Bluer the finders, damper the brow, hollow and faint the rattling voice ! 

The old man sank slowly back on the bed, while the arm of his son, the 
President, was about his neck. His eyes were closed, his hands placed on 
his breast. He was sliding gently, almost imperceptibly into Death. The 
'belt of sunlight that poured through the window over the floor, moved along 
the carpet like the shadow of a dial shortened, and was gone. Still he 
lived : still a faint lluttering of the shrunken chest, showed that the soul 
was not yet gone home. 

It would have made you grow in love with death, to see how calmly he 
died. Just as the shadows of the trees were cast far over the meadow by 
the declining sun, just as the shout of the People, the thunder of cannon, 
the tone of the orator came softened on the breeze, the old man raised his 
head, unclosed his eyes — 

"Jrfferson i/et siirrirea .'" he said, and the wave of Death reached his 
lips, and he breathed no more. 



THE LAST DAY OF JEFFERSON AND ADAMS. 453 

It was fonr o'clock on the afternoon of July 4th, 1826, when John Adams 
closed his life of glorious deeds, 

" Jefferson yet survives !" 

While the words of the venerable Adams yet linger in our ears, let us 
hasten away to the Second Home, where Death has crossed the threshhold. 

Emerging from the shadows of this beautiful valley of Virginia, we as- 
cend a slight elevation, and by the light of the morning sun, behold a strange 
structure, standing amid a grove of forest trees. But one story in heighth, 
with elegant pillars in front, and a dome rising above its roof, it strikes you 
with its singular, almost oriental style of Architecture, and yet seems tiie 
appropriate Hermitage of Philosophy and Thought. 

That structure, relieved by the background of towering trees, is the Home 
of a Hero. Beneath that Grecian portico, the Poets, Artists and Philoso- 
phers of the old world have often passed, eager to behold the Statesman of 
the New World, the author of the Declaration of Independence. 

It is noonday now ; the summer sun streams warmly on yonder dome ; 
the leaves are scarcely stirred into motion by the faintest breath of air. 
Uncovering our heads, we will prepare to look upon Death, and with our 
hearts subdued in awe, we will enter Monticello. 

There is a group around the death-bed in yonder room. Every eye is 
centred on the visage of a dying man ; the beautiful woman, whom you 
behold standing near his pillow, her eyes eloquent with emotion, is his 
beloved child. 

As he rests before ns, on the bed of death, the centre of the silent group, 
we will approach and look upon liim. A man of tall and muscular frame; 
his face denoting in every marked feature, the power of a bold and fearless 
intellect, his lip compressed with stern determination, his blue eye flashing 
with tlie light of# soul, born to sway the masses of men, by the magic of 
Thought. 

As we approach, he looks up into the face of the beautiful woman, and 
utters these memorable words : 

" Let no inscription be placed upon my tomb but this : Here rests 
Thomas Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of iNDErESDENCE, 
AND THE Friend or Religious Freedom." 

As he speaks, he describes a faint gesture, with his withered right hand. 
That hand, fifty years ago, wrote the Declaration of Inilependence. It is 
feeble and withered now ; time was, when it wrote certain words that sank 
into the heart of universal man, and struck the shackles from ten thousand 
hearts. 

Against the frauds practised by priests and kings from immortal time — 
against the tricks of courtiers, the malice of bigots, the falsehoods of time- 
servers who are paid to be religious, hired to be great — against all manner of 
barbarity, whether done by a New Zealand cannibal, who eats the wretch 
whom he has butchered, or the Spanish Inquisition, which after burning its 

55 



454 THE FOURTH OK JULY, 1776. 

victims, consigns them pleasantly to an eternal torture after death, or by 
John Calvin, who calmly beheld the skull of an unoffending man crumble 
into ashes, and then wiped his bloody hands and praised his Uod, that he 
was such a holy man — against all wrong, worked by the infamous or the 
weak upon Man the child of Divinity, was directed the eloquence of his 
Pen. The hand that once wielded that pen of power, is now chilled with 
the damps of death I 

As we stand gazing upon the dying man — held enchained by the majesty 
of that intellect, which glows brightly over the ashy face, and flashes vividly 
in the clear blue eye — the beautiful woman takes the icy hands within her 
own, and kisses the cold brow. 

The Iiand of Death is on him now. 

" Thank God that I have lived to see this glorious day !" he utters in a 
firm voice ; and then raising his glazing eyes, he gazes in his daughter's 
face, while the deaili-rattle writes in his throat — " Nunc dimmitis dom»e !" 
were the last words of Thomas Jefferson. 

At the same hour of noon, when the fervid sun poured straight down on 
the dome of his hermitage, when not a breath of air ruillod the leaf or 
stream, when in the midst of a weeping throng, stood his beloved daughter, 
placing her soft lingers on his glassy eyeballs, pressing her warm mouth to 
his cold lips, died Thomas Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of Imle- 
pendence. 

He died some four hours before Adams surrendered his soul. When tlie 
Patriot of Quincy gasped " JetTerson still survives," the soul of Jefferson 
was already before his God. 

It would have been deemed a wonderful thing, had either of these men 
died on the Fourth of July, just half a century after tiie day of 1770. 

But that the Brothers in the work of freedom, the in^ter spirits of the 
Council, who stirred up men's hearts with godlike impulses, and moved 
their arms in glorious deeds, in the dark hour of Revolution, should have 
died not only on the Fourth of July, but on the same day, within a few 
hours of each other, while bodily separated by hundreds of miles, their souls 
borne to Heaven by the hymns of a People, freed by their labors, looks to 
me as though Almighty God had sent his Messenger and called his Servants 
liome, thus sanctifying by this two-fold death, the Fourili of July forever- 
more. 

They met before the Throne of God, and stood, solemn and awful, amid 
the throng of heroes clustered there. 

Compare the death-beds of tliese men, with the closing hour of their 
compeer in the work of freedom, Thomas Paixe ! They surrounded by 
friends, who smiled fondly on their glazing eyes ; encircled by beautiful 
women, who pressed their warm hands to the icy brow, and kissed the 



THE NAMELESS DEATH. 455 

freezing lips : He, utterly desolate and alone, with no friend, save one aged 
Quaker ; no hope, save that which (h'opped from the envenomed tongues 
of the Pharisees, who came to feast their eyes with his deatli struggles, even 
as savages amuse their idle hours by torturing the wretch whom thej' pur- 
pose to burn to death. 

Pity Tlionias Paine, my friends, and ask yourselves the question — " Tried 
by the same kind of justice, thai has darkened his errors into sins worse 
than murder or incest, and converted liis heroic virtues into crimes, what 
would become of Jetlerson and Adams .'" 

Imagine the biography of .IcIVerson and Adams, written by one of those 
ignoble wretches, who heaped their slanders on the grave of Thomas Paine ! 

I stand upon the grave of this deeply wronged hero, and ask my country- 
men to do him justice ! I admit his errors, and pity tliem, for the sake of 
his substantial virtues. I boldly poiiit to the records of the past for proof, 
when I state, that Thomas Paine was the co-worker of Jefferson and Adams, 
in the great deed of Independence. My voice may fall unheeded now, but 
one hundred years hence, the name of the Infidel will be forgotten in the 
glory of the Patriot, Tuomas Paink, 

XVIII.— THE NAMELESS BEATH. 

There is another of the Signers, whose death I would like to picture, but 
am afraid. 

In the fearful hour of the Revolution, when our army was without arms, 
our treasury bankrupt, this Signer, by the force of his persona! character 
alone, gave muskets, swords and cannon to the soldiers, luindreds of thou- 
sands of dollars to the Continental Congress. He was the lii'e, the blood, 
the veins of our financial world. To him the Congress looked for aid, to 
liis counting house Washington turned his eyes, in his direst peril, and was 
not denied. The dollars of this Signer fed our starving soldiers ; lii.s per- 
sonal credit gave us throughout this world, that which is worth more than 
gold — confidence. 

And yet, he died— how ? Not in a duel, like Ikitton Gwinett, nor sur- 
rounded by the peaceful scenes of home, like Jeflerson and Adams. Nor 
did he meet his fate in batUe. But he died— 

I am ashamed, afraid to tell it. 

Not two hundred yards from the old State House, there rose some years 
ago, an edilice, whose walls were black, whose only echoes were sobs and 
groans, whose ornaments, some iron manacles and a stout timber gibbet. It 
seemed like a Curse frozen into stone, a Pestilence impersnnified in bars 
and bolts and black walls. In the Revolution, while the British held the 
city, this edilice rung all day and night, with the horrible cries of rejel pris- 
oners, dying the death of dogs, their heart eaten up by a Plague, which 
had been created by the tilth and corruption of the den. After the Revo- 



486 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

luiion, the place made hideous by a thousand murders, was tlie residence 
of thieves, pirates, assassins, felons of every grade. Amon^ the various 
groups of felons, who blasphemed all day in this stone Pandeuioniuni. there 
U'as a certain class, distinguished from the others by their silence, their pule 
Aiecs stamped with mental agony, their evident superiority in point of ap- 
pearance and education. 

Some of this latter class were men, some were women ; torn from their 
homes by the hands of brutes, in the shape of oiTicers of the law, they were 
hurled through the gales, and left to rot in the company of the robber, the 
pirate, the murderer. 

This class of felons were guilty of a hideous crime, deserving of worse 
penalties than theft or murder. 

They were called Insolvent Dkrtors. 

To me, this law of imprisonment for debt has ever seemed a holy thing, 
vorthy of the golden age of New Zealand, when burning little children and 
innocent women, was a pleasant pastime for the jocular cannibals. It is 
indeed a blessed law, worthy o\' llio blood and tears which were shed in the 
Revolution to establish our liberties. It merely converts your honest man 
into a felon, inviting him most cordially to commit robbery, forgery or mur- 
der, for these things are not punished with half the severity thai visits the 
head of your Unfortunate Debtor. Your forger can buy his Law — some- 
times his Judge — your Murderer may proc\ire a pardon from a merciful 
Governor, but what mercy is there for the wroich who owes money, which 
he cannot pay ? 

In order more eft'ectually to demonstrate the beauty of this law as it 
existed some thirty years ago, in all its purity, let me beseech you to look 
through the grated windows of Walnut street gaol, in the quiet of this eve- 
ning hour. 

It is a cell that we behold ; four bare walls, a chair or too, a miserable 
couch. Tliere is some sunshine here. Yes, the evening sun shines through 
the grates, on the lloor of the cell, and lights up the sad face of the Mother, 
vho with her children bends over the couch. You must not mind their 
tears ; you must laugh at their sobs, for the Husband, the Father, who 
writhes on that couch, is an Insolvent Debtor. 

He was once a man of noble presence, somewhat tall in stature, with a 
frank, ingenious countenance, deep tranqud eyes, and a brow that bore the 
marks of a strong intellect. 

Now, the mere wreck of a man — face, form, brow, all withered, eyes 
dimmed, and jaw fallen — he quivci-s on the couch of this Walnut street 
gaol. 

Why this change ? For long years, pursued by honest gentlemen, with 
thin lips, pinched faces, eyes bleared with the lust of gain, this Man — for he 
is still a Man — has went through all the tortures with which poets, in their 
imaginary hells, alllict the damned. They have hounded him in the streets. 



THE LAST OF THE SIGNERS. 457 

in the church, in the house, yelling a kind of hloodhounil's bay all the while, 
and at last driven him into the gaol. 

He is there, dying ; his wife, his children by his side. The curses of 
pirates, thieves, pickpockets, murderers, echo through the iron-banded 
door. 

Mother \ Take your children by the hand ; lead them to the window ; 
bid them look through the green trees, and behold yonder steeple glittering 
in the sun. That is Independence Hall. 

And here, on the debtor's couch, in the felon's gaol, lies one of the 
Signers of the Declaration of Independence. Here, dying in slow agony, 
writhes the man who gave arms to Washington, money to Congress, and 
by his resolute energy, saved his country in the darkest hour of peril. 

IloBEKT Morris dying in a felon's gaol 

It is too much ! For the honor of our country, for the sake of that 
respect which honest shame and honorable poverty claims in every clime, 
among all men, we cannot go on. 

But thosfe times, when Men were made felons by the holy law of Im- 
prisonment for Debt have passed away. The law exists no longer in any 
civilized community. It is true, that in two or three barbarous despotisms 
— we cannot call them states — this law does yet remain in force, but tills 
merely leaves us to infer, that liie majority of its honest citizens are felons, 
needing infamous enactments to keep them in order. 

No man can call himself an American citizen, who dwells in such a 
community, or submits to such a despotism. 

What beautiful words these are for history, to be read in connection with 
each otter— Robert Morris ! A fklon's gaol ! 

XX.-TIIE LAST OF THE SIGNERS. 

Come to the window^ old man ! 

Come, and look your last upon this beautiful earth ! The day is dying ; 
the year Is dying ; you are dying ; so light and leaf and life, mingle in one 
common death, as they shall mingle in one resurrection. 

Clad in a dark morning gown, that revealed the outlines of his tall form, 
now bent with age— once so beautiful in its erect manhood— he rises {torn 
his chair, which is covered with pillows, and totters to the window, spread 
ing forth his thin white hands. 

Did you ever see an old man's face, that combines all the sweetness of 
childhood, with the vigor of matured intellect ? Snow-while hair falling in 
fiAes around a high and open brow, eyes that gleam with mild clear light, 
a mouth moulded in an expression of benignily almost divine ? 

It is the Fourteenth of November, 1832 ; the hour is sunset, and the man 
Charles Carroll of Carrolton, the last of the signers. 

Ninety-five years of age, a weak and trembling old man, he has sum- 



458 THE roUKTII OF JULY, 1770. 

inoned all his strength and gone along the carpeted chamber to the window, 
his dark gown contrasted with the purple curtains. 

He is the last ! 

or the noble Fifty-Six, who in the Revolution stood forth, undismayed 
by the axe or gibbet, their mission the freedom of an age, the salvation of a 
country, he alone remains ! 

One by one the pillars have crumbled from the roof of the temple, and 
now the last — a trembling column — glows in the sunlight, as it is about to fall. 

But for the pillar that crumbles there is no hope, that it shall ever tower 
aloft in its pride again, while for tliis old man about to sink in the night of 
the grave, there is a glorious hope. His memory will live. His soul will 
live, not only in the presence of its God, but on the tongues and in the 
hearts of millions. The band in which he counts one, can never be 
forgotten. The last ! 

As the venerable man stands before us, the declining day imparts a warm 
flush to his face, and surrounds his brow with a halo of light. His lips 
move without a sound ; he is recalling the scenes of the Declaration, he is 
murmuring tlie names of his brothers in the good work. 

All gone but him ! 

Upon tlie woods — dyed with the rainbow of the closing year — upon the 
stream, darkened by masses of shadow, upon the homes peeping out from 
among the leaves, falls mellowing the last light of the declining day. 

He will never see liie sun rise again. 

He feels that the silver cord is slowly, gently loosening ; he knows that 
the golden bowl is crumbling at tlie fountain's brink. But Death comes oa 
him as a sleep, as a pleasant dream, as a kiss from beloved lips ! 

He feels that the land of his birth lias become a Mighty People, and 
thanks God that he was permitted to behold its blossoms of hope, ripen into 
full life. 

In the recess near the window, you behold an altar of prayer ; above it, 
glowing in the fading light, the Image of Jesus seems smiling even in 
agony, around that death-chamber. 

The old man turns aside from the window. Tottering on lie kneels be- 
side the altar, his long dark robe drooping over the lloor. He reaches forth 
his white hands ; he raises his eyes to the face of the Crucified. 

There in the sanctity of an old man's last prayer, we will leave him. 
There where amid the deepening shadows, glows die Image of the Saviour, 
there where the light falls over the mild face, the wavy hair, and tranquil 
eyes of the aged patriarch. 

The smile of the Saviour was upon the Declaration on that perilous day. 
the Fourth of July, 1776, and now that its promise has brightened into 
fruition, He seems — he does smile on it again — even as his sculptured 
image meets the dying gaze of Charles Carroll of Carrolton, 

JHt LAST 01- THE SlGNlRS. 



THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 



A SEQUEL TO THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 



(459) 



THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE ^gj 

SEQUEL TO THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 

Among llie many wretches who skulk in the dens of a larje city, there 
18 one whose very name e.xcites a sensation of overwhelming disgust. 

It is not the Thief, for even he driven mad by hunger and pilfering a 
crust, to keep life in him, may have some virtues. Nor is it the Murderer, 
who plunges his knife from a dark alley into the back of the wayfarer, re- 
turning home to his wife and children. Nor yet the Hangman, who for a 
few dollars, puts on a mask of crape, mounts a gibbet, and chokes a human 
being in slow agony to death, all in the name of the Law. Nor is it the 
miserable vagabond of the large city, who covered with rags and sores, 
sleeps at night in the ditch, picks his food from the gutter's lillli, and is 
found dead some morning with a bottle of alcoholic poison beside liim, and 
no one, not even a dog, to claim his corse. 

The Wretch of whom we speak, must in point of ignominy claim prece- 
dence over all these. Thief, Murderer, Hangman, Vagabond. He goes at 
dead of night, into the silence of the graveyard, and with spade and axe in 
liand, roots out from the consecrated earth the coffin of some one, fondly 
beloved — it may be a Father, a Sister, a Wife, a Mother — and coolly 
splintering the lid drags forth the corse, huddles it grotesquely in his 
sack, and sells it for a few dollars. 

Polite language has no name for this wretch, who like a fiendish beast 
makes a meal from the dead, but in the language of those who purchase his 
wares, he is called a Bodv-Snatcher. 

A great painter once maintained a learned argument in favor of the 
strange fancy, that every human face bore a striking resemblance to the face 
of some animal. I am not disposed to affirm the truth of this supposition, 
but a fancy has often arisen in my mind, that for every depraved wretch 
whom we find skulking in rags in the holes of a large city, there may be 
found another wretch precisely similar, in the fine mansions, and beneath 
the broadcloth garments of the vvoallhy and educ^ated classes. 

The thief who shivering in rags and gnawed with hunger rots in the 
ditch, has his parallel in the Thief who dressed in satin, sits perched on a 
banker's desk, robbing widows and orphans with religious deliberation. So 
the Hangman who chokes to death for a few dollars, reminds us of the 
Bribed Judge, who for his price — say a thousand dollars — will sentence to 
the gallows an innocent man, or set free the murderer of a mother. 

But where shall we find the fellow of the grave-violator — the Bodt- 
Snatcher of polite life ? 

Look yonder, my dear friend, and behold a magnificent saloon brilliantly 
lighted, and crowded with one dense mass of ladies and gentlemen, who 
wear rich apparel and come elegandv in carriages, with liveried negroes, 

56 



4418 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1|76. 

and coats of arms, aiul all other indicalions of an excessively rellned 
aristocracy. 

These ladies and genilemen all turn their eyes to one point. Behold the 
point of interest ! While silks rustle, and plumes wave, and eye-glasses 
move to and fro, behold under the tjlare of the chandelier, a man of middle 
age, clad in sober black, with a roll of paper in his hand. He lays the roll 
of paper on the desk, erected in the centre of the platform, covered with 
green baize, and lifts his head. 

It is a striking face ! The hue yellow, its texture parchment, the eyes 
pale grey, the lips pinched until they are invisible, the whole physiognomy 
reminding you of a skull, dressed up for a Christmas pantomime by tlie 
buitbon of a circus. 

Who is this individual ? Hark ! He speaks in a soft silvery voice, with 
a gesture that reminds you of a hyena prowling round the fresh mould of a 
new made grave. 

T!>at my friends, is the Body-Sxatcher of polite life. He does not, like 
his brother, the grave-violator of the hut. steal a corse and sell it for a few 
dollars, but he does something more. He takes up the .Memories of the 
Dead, and so covers them with his venom, that History can no more re- 
cognize her heroes, than you can the corse which lies mangled on the 
dissecting table. 

This Body-Snatcher of the lecture room does not ravage graveyards ; no ! 
History is a graveyard to him, and he tears souls from their shrines, and 
M'ithei^ hearts into dust. He would be very indiirnant, were von to intro- 
duce him to his brother, the Body-Snatcher of the hut, and yet the grave- 
yard mould, on the hands of the ragged wretch, is holy in the sight of 
Heaven, compared with one shred of the apparel worn bv the tinely-dresscd 
Body-Snatcher of the lecture room. 

Behold him as he stands there, before his aristocratic audience, in his 
sober black apparel and skull-like face ; listen to his voice, as for a weary 
hour, he belabors dead men with libels, calls their corses — Coward ! and 
lets his base soul forth, to slander among the graves of heroes. 

How far these remarks will apply to a recent Reviewer of Thomas 
P.iiSK, we will leave to the judgment of the impartial reader. 

This Reviewer, whom it is not necessary to name, as he merely forms 
one in the large class of lecturers and essayists to which he belongs, deter- 
mined to deliver belbre an American audience, a sketch of the life, writings, 
and death of the author of " Common Sense." It must be confessed, that 
ho had made ample preparations for the task. To a knowledge of the law, 
he had added an intimate acquaintance with the arts and mysteries of bank- 
ing, and all the ways and windings of the science of politics. The com- 
plete statue of his character, moulded from the bar, the bank, and the bar- 
room, shapen of the most incongrous materials, was mellowed and relined 
by a warm glow of morality. Tliis was what made it so charming to hear 



THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 463 

the lecturer discourse of Thomas Paine ; lie was so eminently moral, so 
financially pure, so lesrally just anJ politically religious ! 

As he rises before us, with his green bag in one hand, his last political 
letter in the other, let us hear him discourse of the man whom Washington 
delighted to call his friend. 

He observed : 

' That to dig from an almost forgotten grave, the intellectual character of 
Thomas Paine, the object of violent obloquy during life, and of contumely 
after death, might not be without its uses. It mijrht be done now, wilhoiit 
orteuce, without injustice. Many a teacher of pernicious doctrine, had by 
the purity of his domestic relations, left behind him a sort of protective 
character. — There were surviving relatives and friends, or those who knew 
surviving relatives and friends, who disarmed even just criticism, and stand- 
ing around the grave claimed pity for tliemselves if not for the poor iidiabi- 
tants below. — ' 

This is beautiful, considered merely as a classic sentiuteni, but divine as 
a moral apothegm. Let us illustrate its force by an exanple. We all 
know that there were other Traitors beside Arnold in the Revolution, who 
escaped disgrace and the gallows, made money by chafieriug with both 
parties, and died in the odour of a suspicious sanctity, leaving a dubious 
fame to their children. Suppose I was to go forth on some dark night, to 
the grave of one of those Traitors, take up his corse, strip from it the mark 
of patriotism, and show it by the light of history, a base and dishonored 
thing, for all its thick coaling of gold ? Would not this be perfectly fair^ 
admirably just ? Ves, shrieks a Relative of the Traitor, who stands palsied 
and trembling on the brink of his Ancestor's grave, ' It is fair, it is just ! 
But spare the traitor for the sake nf his descendants .' It is true, he bar- 
gained with both parties, it is true he heaped up gold by his double treason, 
it is true that these fads are written down liy men who never lied, and 
only kept in the shade by the ivealth of the Traitor's descendants, but 
spare him for the sake of those descendants .' Spare him for the sake of 
his respectable connections .' Spare him for the sake of his Gold l" 

And I would spare him. Who can doubt it? The lecturer himself, 
with all his serene purity, and severe love of morality, would deal gently, 
very gently with the memory of a Masked Traitor, who died wealthy and 
left a dubious glory to bis children. 

" But — " continues our gifted friend, " Thomas Paine had none of these. 
He was childless, friendless. Nor was tliere a human being in this wide 
world, who cared a jot for him or his memory." 

Yes, it is just ! Go to the grave of this childless, friendless man ; lift 
from his ashes the coffin lid ; bring forth his skull, and cover it with the 
saliva of an honest lawyer's indignation ! He has no gold to buy immunity 
from history ; no friends to stand beside his grave, beseeching pity for the 
poor inhabitant below. ' The Lion is dead, and a dog may rend him now.' 

It may be true, eloquent and honest Reviewer, that not a " liuman being 
in the wide world cures a Jot for him or his memory now," but there was 



46* THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

a lime, when Washington, Jefferson, Adams called him Wend, and Benja- 
min llusii styled him the foreriinnpr of Jeftcrson, in the great work of Inde- 
pendence. 'J'iiese men after a fashion, mav be called human beings. 

But what estimate do you place on the phrase ' human beins; i" Does it 
mean, in your way of thinking, an artful pettifogger, who fattens on the 
frauds of banks, and grows famous in the annals of political iniquity ? Then 
not a ^ human beins^' in the wide world cares a jot for Thomas Paine or 
his memory. For Thomas Paine, with all his errors, ever directed the 
lightning of his pen against such human beings. 

Or, by ' human being,' do you mean a man who gets his bread by honest 
toil, and scorns to bow down to treason, though it comes masked in gold, and 
refuses to reverence a Traitor's blood, though it has been diluted in the veins 
of some half dozen generations ? 

Ten liiousand such ' human beings,' scattered through this Union, at this 
hour, ' care a jot ' for the memory of Thomas Paine. Ten thousand noble 
hearts pity his faults, admire his virtues, and throb with the strong pulsa- 
tions of scorn, when they behold his skull polluted by the leper's touch. 

The lecturer, in his career about the grave of Paine, exhiljits two remark- 
able qualities in great perfection, critical acumen and love of truth. So well 
does he love truth, that he dangles at her heels continually, his deep passiont 
for the coy beauty filling with modest blushes, and preventing him forever, 
from any actual contact with her. So tine is the temper of the critical steel 
which he wields, that even while he is supposed to he flashing it before your 
eyes, you cannot see it. He seems indeed to have made an art, perfect in 
all its parts, of avoiding a solemn truth, without seeming to do so, and criti- 
cising a book or passage into nothing, apparently unconscious of the maxim : 
" // is a base thing to lie at all, but to lie like truth, or lie by insinuation 
is the work of an intellectual assassin." 

Our Reviewer, in his attempts to display his great powers, occasionally 
rises into the sublime, or at all events, into something very near it, the 
ridiculous : he reminds us of Paine's remark : 

" The sublime of the critics, like some parts of Edmund Burke's sublime 
and beautiful, is like a wind-mill just visible in a fog, which imagination 
might distort into a flying mountain, or an archangel, or a flock of wild 
geese." 

Let us look at his criticism : He calls " Common Sense" a diatribe 
against king, queens and prelates. 

There is a great deal in a word. It would not do for our lecturer to call 
this book a vulgar attack against kings, queens and prelates, for he is well 
aware, that its most violent passages, in relation to these holy personages, 
are copied, word for word, from ilie Book of (Jod ; Samuel's eloquent ap- 
peal to the Hebrews, against the monstrosites of monarchy, being quoted ia 
full. But he calls it a ' diatribe.' Choice word I Let us see how it will 
look iu another connection. ' Tlie Declaration of Independence was a 



THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 455 

diatribe against King George,' or ' Washington's farewell address a diatribe 
against the evils of parly spirit.' There is about as much vulgarity in either 
of those productions, as in Paine's Common Sense; the word 'diatribe' 
would, in the mouth of our lecturer, eminently apply to them. 

Again, vvitii a gravity as commendable as that of the Italian friar, who 
addressed his cap as Martin Luther, and completely vanquished his speech- 
less antagonist, who of course, did not utter a word in reply,— the Ueviewer 
of Paine observes : 

" Common Sense — a bonk of no particular merit, owing its celebrity and 
power to its being ivell-limed.'" 

Very good. Washingtons attack at Trenton, was by no means, sucli a 
great affair as Napoleon's batUe of Waterloo, yet still it had one merit — it 
was well-timed. Napoleon's coming back from Elba, was remarkably 
common-place, but — wtll-limed. Cortez burning his ships, did a very tame 
thing, imitated from Alexander the Great, yet withal it was well-timed. 

That Common Sense should have been well-timed, seems a small thing 
in our reviewer's eyes. To be sure, it aroused a nation into Thought, or 
rather, gave its burning thought a tongue as deep and tempestuous as the 
voice of thunder ; to be sure, it wrote the word " Independence" in every 
h«art, by one bold effort, prepared the way for the Declaration, yet still it 
is a very tame affair : merely " well timed." 

We wish we could say as much of our lecturer's production. It may be 
as powerful as a speech in the Criminal Court, adroit as a banker's specu- 
lation, impetuous as a politician's letter, olTering to bribe voters, by whole 
counties, yet still it is not loell-limed. The day may come when it will 
merit that praise. In some distant golden age, when the temples of religion 
will bear the inscription 'To lie is to worship God,' and the only capital 
offence, punishable with death, will be the utterance of a Truth, and then — 
but not till then— this Reviewer's lecture will be well-timed. 

Let us look at this book of " no particular merit :" for a work so weak, 
this is a somewhat forcible sentence. 

" Government, like dress, is the badge of lost innocence ; the palaces of 
kings are built upon the ruins of the bowers of paradise." 

Listen to Common Sense on Monarchy : 

" For monarchy in every instance is the Popery of government. To the 
evil of monarchy we have added dial of hereditary succession ; and as the 
first is a degradation and lessening of ourselves, so the second, claimed as a 
matter of right, is an insult and imposition on posterity. For all men being 
orii/inally equals, no one by birth, could have a right to set up his own 
family, in perpetual preference to all others for ever, and though himself 
miirht deserve some decent degree of honors of his cotemporaries, yet his 
descendants mi'dit be far too unworthy to inherit them. One of the strongest 
natural proofs of the folly of herechtary right in Kings, is that nature dis- 
approves it, otherwise she would not so frequently turn it into ridicule, by 
giving mankind an Ass for a Lion." 



406 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

Here is an opinion which no doubt shocker] King George, and our elo- 
quent reviewer, with the same deep liorror : 

"Of more wortl\ is one honest man to soriety> and in the sight of God, 
than all the crowned ruflians that ever lived." 

With regard to the oft-repeated watch-word of American admirers of 
England — " Great Britain is the Mother country," — thus speaks Common 
Sense ; 

" But Britain is the parent country, say some. Then the more shame 
upon her conduct. Even brutes do not devour their young, nor savages 
make war upon their families ; wherefore, the assertion, if true, turns to her 
reproach ; but it happens not to be true, or only partlj" so, and the phrase 
parent or mother eotnitri/ hath been jesuitically adopted by the king and 
his parasites, with a low papistical design of gaininir an unfair bias on the 
credulous weakness of our minds. Europe, and not England, is the parent 
country of America. 'J'his new world hath been the asylum for the perse- 
cuted lovers of civil and religious lil)erty from cccr^ ;wr< of Europe. Hither 
have they fled, not from the tender einbraees, but from the cruelty of the 
monster; and it is so far true of England, that the same tvrannv which 
drove the first emigrants from home, pursues their descendants still." 

Speaking to those persons who still advocated a reconciliation with 
England : 

" But if you say, you can still pass the violations over, then I ask, hath 
vour house been burnt? Hath your property been destroyed before your 
face ? Are your wife and cliildren destitute of a bed to lie on, or bread to 
live on ? Have you lost a parent or a child by their hands, and yourself 
the ruined and wretched survivor ? If you have not, then are you not a 
judge of those who have. But if you have, and can still shake hands with 
the murderers, then are yon unworthy the name of husband, father, friend, 
or lover, and whatever may be your rank or title in life, you have the heart 
of a coward, and the spirit of a sycophant." 

Again : 

Ye that tell us of harmony and reconciliation, can ye restore to us the 
time that is past ? Can ye give to prostitution its former innocence ? Neither 
can ye reconcile Britain and America. The last cord now is broken, the 
people of England are presenting addresses against us. There are injuries 
which nature cannot forgive; she would cease to be nature if she did. As 
\ve\\ can the lover forgive the ravisher of his mistress, as the continent for- 
give the murders of Britain. The Almighty hath implanted in us these 
inextinguishable feelings, for good and wise jnirposes. They are the guar- 
dians of his image in our hearts, and distinguish us from the herd of common 
animals. The social compact would dissolve, and justice be extirpated 
from the earth, or have only a casual existence were we callous to the 
touches of affection. The robber and the murderer would often escape un- 
punished, did not the injuries which our tempers sustain, provoke us into 
justice. 

" O ! ye that love mankind ! Ye that dare oppose, not only the tyranny, 
but the tyrant, stand forth ! Every spot of the old world is overrun with 
oppression. Freedom hath been haunted around the globe. Asia, and 
Africa, have long expelled her. Europe regards her like a stranger, and 
England hath giveri her warning to depart. O ! receive the fugitive, and 
prepare in time an asylum for mankind." 



I 



THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 407 

This rude author of Common Sense had some idea of our resources; 
liear him in his iron-lianded style : 

" In ahnost every article of defence we abound. Hemp flourishes even to 
rankness, so that we need not want cordage. Our iron is superior to that 
of other countries. Our small arms equal to any in the world. Cannon 
we can cast at pleasure. Saltpetre and gunpowder we are every day pro- 
ducing. Our knowledge is hourly improving. Resolution is our inherent 
character, and courage hath never yet forsaken us. Therefore, what is it 
we want ? Why is it that we hesitate ? From Britain we can e.\pect 
nothing but ruin. If she is once admitted to the government of America 
again, this continent will not be worth living in. Jealousies will he always 
arising, insurrections. will be constantly happening ; and who will go forth 
to quell them ? Who will venture his life to reduce to own countrymen to 
a foreign obedience ? The difierence between Pennsylvania and Connecticut, 
respecting some unlocated lands, shows the insignificance of a British gov- 
ernment, and fully proves that nothing but continental authority can regulate 
continental matters." 

One passage more, in order to prove the puerility of the work : 

" We have it in our power to begin the world over again. A situation, 
similar to the present, hath not happened since the days of Noah until now. 
The birthday of a new world is at hand, and a race of men, perhaps as 
numerous as all Europe contains, are to receive their portion of freedom 
from the events of a few months. The reflection is awful — and in this 
point of view, how trifling, how ridiculous, do the little paltry cavilings, of 
a few weak or interested men appear, when weighed against the business 
of a world." 

Here is a specimen of Paine's advice to great men. It was originally 
applied to Sir AVilliam Howe, but will eminently suit our reviewer: 

" But how, sir, shall we dispose of you ? The invention of a statuary is 
exhausted, and Sir William is yet unprovided with a monument. America 
is anxious to bestow her funeral favors upon you, and wishes to do it in a 
manner that shall distinguish you from all the decease<l heroes of the last 
war. The Egyptian method of embalming is not known to the present 
age, and hieroglyphical pageantry hath outliv'ed the science of decyphering 
it. Some other method, therefore, must be thought of to immortalize the 
new knight of the windmill and post. Sir William, thanks to his stars, is 
not oppressed with very delicate ideas. He has no ambition of being 
wrapped up and handed about in myrrh, aloes and cassia. Less expensive 
odors will suffice; and it fortunately happens, that the simple genius of 
America hath discovered the art of preserving bodies, and embellishing them 
too, with much greater frugality than the ancients. In balmage, sir, of hum- 
ble tar, you will be as secure as Pharoali, and in a hieroglyphic of feathers, 
rival in linery all the mummies of Egypt." 

Do you not think that these passages indicate a work of some particular 
merit ? The Reviewer continues his critical excursion in this style : 

" He next wrote the " Crisis," a series of papers, sixteen in number ; and 
designed as popular appeals. They bore the signature of" Common Sense." 
The^firsl words of the first number, written two days before the batde of 
Trenton, have become part of our household words :— " These are the 
times that try men's souls." Yet, it is manifest that with all Pame's 
aptitude at coining popular phrases, there was no spring of true eloquence 



411$ THE FOURTH OF JULY, n:6. 

in him. And when he wrote under immediate and outward pressure, and 
without an opporliinity of revision and slow elaboration, no matter liow 
great the occasion or intense tlic excitement — lie wrote feebly antl impo- 
tently. The fourth paper dated the day after the batde of Brandy wine is 
given as an instance." 

These remarks made in the face of day, in the Nineteenth Century, can 
only be answered with a sentence of Thomas Paine : "There is dignity in 
the warm passions of a whig, which is never to be found in the cold malice 
of a Tory. In the one nature is only heated — in the other she is 
poisoned." 

We must admit that the lecturer has the best right to think meanly of 
Paine, for as we see by this scnlence, Paine had but an inferior opinion of 
the part)^ to which our critical friend appertains. 

You will perceive that he gives this short article, published the day after 
the battle of the Brandywine, as an instance of impotence in style. 

This impotent essay, written in the fear of British occupation amid the 
palpitations of popular panic, comprises this weak line : 

" We fight not to enslave, but to set a country free, and to make room 
upon the earth for honest men to live in." 

— "There was no spring of true eloquence in him!" Pity poor Tom 
Paine ! The fountain of his thoughts did not flow from the marble portals 
of a bank — chartered to rob by wholesale — nor from the miasmatic corri- 
dors of a Criminal Court. " There was no spring of true eloquence in 
him !" Weep for Tom Paine ! Had he but wielded a green bag, and 
written letters on the eve of a popular election, kindly oflering to pay for a 
handsome majority, there might have been a spring of true eloquence in his 
breast, but as the case stands in history, he was but an Author and Poor I 

Our rich, and of course virtuous reviewer, thus disposes of a work which 
Washington and La Fayette did not hesitate to honor with their names on 
the dedication page : 

" It was not long before he began to write again ; and in rapid succession, 
a batch of revolutionary pamphlets were published. Among them was the 
" Rights of Man," in reply to Mr. Burke's " Rellections ;" and though the 
reader of the present day may smile at the contrast, it is idle to deny that 
Paine made an impression in Great Britain. His grotesque and often 
vigorous phrases told on the e.xcited iniud of the populace. 

" A batch of revolutionary pamphlets !" Singular felicity of phrase ! 
Take all the addresses issued by Conventions in 1775, all the papers 
penned by Jefferson or Henry, all the eloquent appeals impressed with the 
power of Adams or the weight of Washington's name, and you have not a 
selection of the noblest gems of patriotism and literature, but a — ' batch of 
revolutionary pamphlets !' 

Our lecturer's morality and patriotism all must admire. To slander the 
childless dead is no sin. To write Common Sense, and awake a Nation 
into a sense of their rights, is merely to pen ' a diatribe.' To defend the 



I 



THE VIOLATOR OF TIIC GUAVE. ^gg 

rights of man against the elegant sycophant of royally, Edmund Burke, who 
thought llie carcass of monarchy was beautiful because he flung flowers 
upon its festering pollution, and concealed the worms upon its brow with 
the mushruom blossoms of metaphor, is not to do a noble deed, but simply 
to write one of a — " batch of revolutionary pamphlets." 

But it seems the fellow's" grotesque and vigorous phrases told on tlie ex- 
cited mind of the populace." Yes : so the grotesque and vigorous phrases 
of Samuel Adams told on the excited mind of the populace, who in Boston 
Harbor dlsgui^ed as Indians, drowned a cargo of British tea. 

Here is one of the grotesque and vigorous phrases of Thomas Paine, 
selected at random from the Rights of Man : 

"If systems of government can he introduced less expensive, and more 
productive of general happiness, ihan those which have existed, all attempts 
to Ojipose their progress will in the end prove fruitless. Reason, like time, 
will make its own way, and prejudice will fall in the combat with interest. 
If universal peace, harmony, civilization and commerce are ever to be the 
happy lot of man, it cannot be accomplished but by a revolution in the 
present system of governments. All the monarchical governments are 
mililar)'. War is their trade, plunder and revenue their objects. While 
such governments continue, peace has not the absolute security of a dav. 
AVbat is the history of all monarchical governments but a disgustful picture 
of human wretchedness, and the accidental respite of a few years repose .' 
Wearied with war, and tired of human butchery, they sat down to rest and 
called it peace. This certainly is not the condition that heaven intended 
for man ; and '\i lliUbe monarcliy, well might monarchy be reckoned among 
the sins of the Jews. 

Doubtless the reader of the present day, will smile at the contrast be- 
tween Mr. Burke's reflections and Thomas Paine's Rights of Man. Burke 
was an elegant gentleman in a court dress, with a nosegay in his button- 
hole. Paine but a man, with the garb of a freeman upon his form. Burke 
with his pretty figures and dainty words, wept for the French King and 
cried his eyes out of their sockets for Marie Antoinette. Paine the vulgar 
fellow, reserved his tears for the hundred millions of France, who had been 
ground into powder by this king and his predecessors in iniquity, for the 
women, the poor women of that enslaved land, who for ages had been 
made the tool of a tyrant's lust or the victims of his power. Burke reminds 
us of a spectator of a barbarous murder, who instead of defending the pros- 
trate woman from the knife of the assassin, coolly takes paper and pencil 
from his pocket and begins a sketch of the scene, exclaiming as the blood 
streams from the victim's throat — " What a striking picture !" Paine is 
merely an honest member of the " populace," for while Burke makes his 
picture, he springs at the murderer's throat, and rescues the bleeding woman 
from his knife. 

Meanwhile our lecturer stands quietly by, and 'smiles at the contrast' 
between the elegant Burke and the vulgar Paine. 

We might crowd our pages with illustrations of Thomas Paine's power. 

57 



470 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

We might suffer him lo speak for iiimself, in his clear-thoughted, iron- 
tongiied style. And yet whole pages, extracted from his works, stamped 
with genius and glittering with beauties, bear no more comparison to the 
full volume of his intellect, than a drop to the ocean, or — to use an imper- 
fect comparison — than tiie instinctive malignity of a hyena, to the cold- 
blooded malice of our Reviewer. 

They have been more read, more quoted, more copied, than any political 
papers ever written. We hazard nothing, when w-e state, that our ablest 
statesmen, for the last fifty years, have freely used the pages of Paine, in 
their best papers, in some instances without a word of credit. Such phrases 
as " These are the times that try men's souls," have become republican 
scripture in every American heart. 

You will be surprised, reader, after perusing these passages, at the hardi- 
hood of our lecturer, who with all his love of truth, prepers Burke to Paine, 
King George lo Washington, the applause of an aristocratic audience to the 
good opinion of the populace. 

You will be somewhat indignant withal ; while the strong throb of honest 
anger, — if the bile of a reptile can e.xrile anger — swells your bosom, you 
will be induced lo ask this Reviewer — ' CouKl you not be a man for once 
in your life ? Scorned by the living, could you not leave the dead alone ? 
Were there not oilier graves to desecrate, oiher skulls on which to vent 
your venom. Nay ! Why, in your ferocious appetite for dead men's 
bones, you did not dis-inter a Traitor of the Revolution, who has come 
down to our time, baptised in a miserable glory ?' 

But these words would have been lost on the Violator of the Grave. Ife 
■wished to build a character for religion and morality. Paine was the author 
of a deistical work ; Paine died childless. The Grave-Violator beheld this 
glorious opportunity ! He could abuse the deistical author, and slander the 
childless dead ! His reputation as a defender of religion would be estab- 
lished ; he, the coiner of falsehoods as base as a Malay's steel, would be 
quoted as a — Christian ! 

Christianity was to be indebted for a character to him, who in sober 
charity, had none to spare. 

But he overshot his mark. While he dealt a just rebuke to the Intidel, 
he should have spared the Patriot. While he took the last years of I'aine's 
life, and held them up to the laughter of the cold and heartless crowd, he 
should have stepped lightly over his Revolutionary career. For in the sound 
of his voice, there was an old man, who remembered Tlioinas Paine, writing 
his Crisis, in 1776, and tracking his bloody footsteps in the snow, while a 
certain officer of the Continental army, was basely bargaining with the 
enemy and hungering to be bought. 

While he struck his coward's blow upon the dead man's skull, he should 
have heard the whisper of prudence — " Take care ! There are other dead 
tlian Thomas Paine ! There are other traitors than Benedict Arnold !" 



THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 471 

As a specimen of our Reviewer's love of truth, we need only make a 
reference to the passage of his lecture, in which he states, that Paine, in 
Paris, ' voted for the abolition of Royalty, and the trial of the King.' 
This is all he tells us. He does not say iiow he voted on the trial of the 
King ; that would not serve his purpose. He merely " voted." He may 
have voted life ! or deatli ! but the lecturer dares not condescend to say a 
word. His object is to leave the impression on your mind, that Paine voted 
for the execution of the Monarch, when the fact is notorious, that he nobly 
defended Louis from the penalty of death, and in the most lowering hour of 
the Convention, pointed to the United States as an asylum for guilty Royalty. 

Which is most contemptible, the bold utterance, or the snake-like insinu- 
ation of a Lie ? The bite of the bull-dog, or the hiss of the viper ? 

The hatred which the lecturer bears to Paine, does not even cease with 
his death. Listen — 

" About ten years after Paine's death, Cobbett made a pilgrimage to New 
Rochelle, disinterred the mouldering bones, and removed them to Great 
Britain. It was a piece of independent and ineffectual mockery. The 
bones of the scoffer were looked on by such of the British people as knew 
any thing about them, with no more regard than the anatomical student 
bestowed on the unknown carcass before him.'' 

I do not know your opinion, but were Lto meet the wretch who wrote 
the italicized sentence, on a dark night, by the lonely roadside, I would at 
once look for the knife or pistols in his hands, and prepare to defend ray 
life from the attack of an assassin. 

" The unknown carcass" had once embodied a soul which Washington 
recognized in words like these : 

Rocky-Hill, Sept., 10th, 1783. 

I have learned since I have been at this place, that you are at Borden- 
town. Whether for the sake of retirement or economy, I know not. Be 
it for either, for both, or whatever it may, if you will come to this place, 
and partake with me, I shall be exceedingly happy to see you. 

Your presence may remind congress of your past services to this coun- 
try ; and if it is in my power to impress them, command my best exertions 
w'ith freedom, as they will be rendered cheerfully by one, who entertains a 
lively sense of the importance of your works, and who, with much pleasure, 
subscribes himself, Your sincere friend, 

G. WASHINGTON. 

If it were possible at this late day, to recover the skeletons of Judas 
Iscariot and Benedict Arnold, much as I despise these melancholy examples 
of human frailty, I would not insult even their bones, by placing the 
" carcass" of this Reviewer in their company. 

The wretch who can thus insult the dead, is not worthy of a resting 
place, even among traitors. Did I believe the Pythagorean doctrine of 
transmigration of souls, I would know where to look for the soul of this 
Reviewer, after death. There is an animal that fattens on corses : it is 
called the hyena. 



473 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

But our task is done. We have gone through the nauseous falsehoods, 
the vulgar spile, the brutal malignity of this man, and felt inclined in his 
case, to reverse our religious creed and believe in Total Depravity. He 
Cannot claim from me, nor from any human being, the slightest pity. He has 
violated the grave of the dead, and must not complain, if his own life is 
made the subject of scathing analysis. Will it bear the light?. All the 
talent ever possessed by himself, or anything of liis name, bolstered by 
wealth and puffed by pedantry, would not be sufBcient to create one line, 
worthy of Thomas Paine. 

By this time, it is to be hoped, that the lecturer, and others of the same 
class, will have learned that Thomas Paine is not altogether friendless. It 
is not a safe thing to attack his Patriot Name. The man who consents 
to do the work of a ffrave violator, must not expect favor from the People. 
His only support will prove, only a broken and rotten reed. At all events, the 
person who makes the attack, must look to his own life, and expect to be 
treated in the same manner as he treats the dead. Stand forth, calumniator ! 
Will you submit your life to this scrutiny ? You dare not. You can bluster 
over dead men's graves, but you fear the living. Yes, you are afraid of 
Light, of History, of the Past : well you know why ; too well ! Behold 
the man of courage ! He only attacks childless dead men ! 

But Thomas Paine is not childless. He left behind him Common Sense, 
the Crisis and the Rights of Man ; children that can never die, but will 
outlive all Traitors and descendants, to the end of time. 



BOOK SIXTH. 

ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 



(473), 



i 



ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 



MICHAEL XXX, 

I. -A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 



One dark and sloriiij- night, in the year 1793, a soldier was returning 
home — 

Home — after (he toil and bloodshed of many a well-fonglit liallle ; home 
— to receive his faiiier's blessing — Home, to feel the kiss of his bride ujiou 
his lips ; home, for the second time in fourteen long years ! 

It was where the winding road looked forth upon tlie broad bosom of the 
Chesapeake, that we first behold him. 

On the summit of a dark grey rock, which arose above the gloomy 
waves, he reined his steed. All was dark above — the canopy of heaven, 
one vast and funeral pall, on which the lightning ever and anon, wrote its 
fearful hieroglyph— below, the waves rolled heavily against the shore, tlieir 
deep unirnuir mingling with the tiuinder-peal. 

The same lightning flash that traced its strange characters upon the pall 
of a darkened universe, revealed the face and form of the warrior, every 
point and outline of his war-steed. 

For a moment, and a moment only, that lurid light rushed over the 
waves and sky, and then all was night and chaos again. 

Let us look upon the warrior by the glare of that lightning (lash. 

A man of some tliirtj' years ; his form massive in the cliest, broad in the 
shoulders, enveloped in a blue hunting frock faced wiih fur. From his right 
shoulder a heavy cloak falls in thick folds over the form of his steed. 

At this moment he lifts the troojier cap from his brow. Bathed in the 
lightning glare you behold that high, straight furchead, shadowed by a mass 
of short thick curls, and lighted by the soul of his large grey eyes. The 
broad cheek bones, fair complexion, darkened into a swarthy brown, by the 
toil of fourteen long years, firm lips, and square chin, all indicate a bold and 
cliividrous nature. 

His grey eye lights up with wild raplure, as hx gazes far beyond upon 
the Chesapeake, its surface now dark as ink, and now ruflled into one 
while sheet of foam. And ihe ni)l)le horse which bears his form, witii his 
snow-white flanks seared with the marks of many a battle-scar, arches his 

(475) 



476 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

neck, tosses his lieail alofl, ami wilh quivering nostrils and glaring eye, 
seems to sliare the tiery contest of ihe clcnionts. 

It is an impressive picture wliieli we beliold ; the while horse and his 
rider, drawn by the lightning glare on the canvass of a darkened sky. 

The rain beats against the warrior's brow, it turns to hail, and scatters its 
pcaiis upon the suowy mane of liis steed, among his thickly clustered locks, 
yet still he sits uncovered there. 

The gleaming eye and heaving chest, betoken a soul absorbed in mem- 
ories of the past. 

Yes, he is liiinkiiig of fourteen long years of absence from home, years 
spent in the charge of battle, or the terror of the forlorn hope, or far away 
in the wild woods, where the tomahawk gleams through the green leaves 
of old forest trees. 

lie speaks to his horse, and calls him by name. 

" Old Legion !" 

The horse quivers, starts, as with a thrill of delight, and utters a long and 
piercing neigh. 

lie knows that name. 

lie has heard it in many a bloody fight ; yes, swelling with the roar of 
Brandywine, echoing from the mists of Germantown, whispered amid the 
thunders of Monmouth ; that name has ever been to the brave while horse, 
the signal-note of battle. 

Fourteen years ago, on this very rock, a hoy of sixteen with long curling 
hair, anil a beardless cheek, reined in the noble white horse which lie rode, 
and while the niooulight poured over his brow, gave one last look at his 
childhood's home, and then went forth to battle. 

That while horse has now grown old. The marks of Germantown and 
Valley Forge, and Camden, are written in every scar that darkens over 
his snowy hide. The boy has sprung into hardv manhood ; beard on his 
chin, sears on his form, the light of resolution in his full grey eye, a sword 
of iron in its iix>n sheath, hanging by his side. 

Only a single year ago the white horse and his rider halted for a moment 
on the summit of this rock, a mild summer breeze tossing the mane of the 
steed, and playing widt the warrior's curls. Then he had just bidden fare- 
well to his betrothed, her kiss was yet fresh upon his lips. On his way to 
the Indian wars, he resolved to return after the tight was over, and wed his 
intended bride. 

One year had passed since he beheld her, one year of peril far away 
among the .\lleghanios, or in the wood-bound meadows of the Miami. 

Now covered with scars, his name known as the bravest among the 
brave, he was returning — home. 

" Old Legion !" the souldier speaks to his steed, and in a moment you 
see the gallant war-horse — who is named in memory of the Legion, com- 



A TRADITION. OF THE TWO WORLDS. 477 

maiuled by the Parlizan Lne— spring with a suJiIcmi hoiiml IVoni the locii, 
aiul disappear in the shadows of the inhmd road. 

Seven miles away from the Ciiesapeake, and the .soldier would stand 
upon the tiireshhold of his home. 

Seven miles of a windin^r road, that now plunired into the shadows of 
thick woods, now crossed some quiet brook, surmounted by a rude bridge, 
now ascended yonder steep hill, with rooks crowned by cedars, darkening 
on either side. 'I'hen oame a long and level track with open fields, varied 
by the tortuous " Virginia fence," stretching away on cither side. 

While the rain IVeezing into hail, dashed against his brow, our soldier 
spoke cheerily to his steed, and trees, and rocks, and fields, passed rapidly 
behind him. 

lie was thinking of home — of that beautiful girl — Alice ! 

Ah, how the memory of her form came smiling to his soul, through the 
darkness, and hail, and rain of that stormy night. J^ook where he might, 
he saw her — yes, even as he left her one year ago. In the dark rocks 
among the sombre pines, on the pall of the sky, or among the shadows of 
the wood — look where he might — her imago was there. 

And this was the picture that memory with a free, joyous iiand, and 
colors gathered from the raiidjovv — Hope — sketched on the canvass of the 
past. 

A }'oung girl, standing on the rustic porch of her home, at dead of night 
— her form blooming from girlhood into woman — enveloped in the loose 
folds of a white gown — while her bared arm holds the light above her head. 
The downward rays impart a mild and softened glow to her face. Saw 
you ever hair so dark, so glossy as that which the white 'kerchief lighUy 
binds ? Eyes, so large and dark, so delicately fringed with long tremulous 
lashes, as these which now gleam through the darkness of the night .' Lips 
so red and moist? A cheek so rounded and peach-like in its bloom? A 
form — neidier majestic in its stature, nor ijueenly in its walk — but warm in 
its hues, swelling in its outlines, lovable ia its virgin freshness. 

So rose the picture of his betrothed, to the imagination of the soldier. 
So he beheld her one year ago — even now, closing his eyes in a waking 
dream, which the thunder cannot dispel, he seems to hear her parting 
words : 

" Good bye, Michael ! Oomo back from the wars ; O, come back soon 

niay (iod grant it ! Then, INlichael, as I have pledged a woman's truth 

to you, we will be married !" 

A tear starts from the soldier's eye-lid. lie has seen men fall in batde, 
their skulls oruslu'd by the horses' hoofs, and never wept. They were his 
frien<ls, his comrades, but his eye was tearless. — 'i'his game of war hardens 
the heart into iron. 

But now, as the thought of his young and loving bride steals mildly over 
his soul, he feels the tear-drop in his eye. 

58 



478 ROMANCE OF THE R'EVOLUTION. 

Dashing through the swollen waters of a brook, Michael the soldier, 
begins to ascend the last hilt. Look — as it darkens above him, look upon 

its summit, by the lightning glare. You behold a group of oak trees three 

rugged, ancient forms — standing on the sod near the summit of llio hill, tlicir 
brandies spreading mngniricenlly into the sky. 

Dy tiie lightning flash Micliael beliolds tiie oaks, and knows that his 
home is near. For looking from the fool of these old trees, you may behold 
tliat home. 

How liis heart throbs, as Old Legion dashes up the hill ! 

In order to conceal his agitation, he talks aloud to his war-horse. Smile 
at the hardy soldier if you will, but ere you sneer, learn somelliing of that 
strange companionship wliich binds the warrior and his steed logeihcr. 
Even as the sunburnt sailor talks to the good old ship which bears him, 
even as the hollow eyed student talks to the well-used volumes, wliich have 
been Love and Home to him, in many an hour of poverty and scorn, so 
talks the soldier of Lee's liCgion to his galhint horse. 

" Soli — Old Legion ! We've had many a tough lime together, but soon 
all our trials will be past ! Many a tough time, old boy — d'ye remember 
Germanlown? How we came charging down upon lliem, before the break 
of day ? 

" Or Monmouth — that awful day — when the sun killed ten, where the 
bayonet and cannon-ball only killed one ? 

"Or Camden, where we fled like whipped dogs? But I led the forlorn 
hope, in the attack of Paulus Hook, on foot — without you — my Old 
Legion ? 

" Or d'ye remember the fights among the Injins ? Mad Anthony Wayne 
leading the charge, right into the thickest of the red-skins ? Many a batde 
many a fight b)' day, and fray by night, we've had together. Old Legion — 
we've shared the last crust — slept on the same hard ground — haven't we 
old boy ? And now we're going home — home to rest and quietness ! I'll 
settle down, beneath the roof of the old homestead ; and as for you — there's 
the broad meadow for you to ramble by day, and the clean straw for your 
bed by night ! I should like to see the man that would dare harness you 
to a plough, my brave old war-horse — no I no ! No one shall ever mount 
your back but your old master, or" — and a grim smile lighted the young 
soldier's face — "or, perhaps — Alice!" 

As he spoke — the rain beating beneath the steel front of his cap, all the 
while — he attained the summit of the hill. All was very dark around, all 
was like a pall above, yet there — stretching far to the north, over a dimly 
defined field — the soldier beheld a long straight line of locust trees, their 
green leaves crowned with snowy blossoms. Those trees, whose fragrance 
imbued the blast which rushed against the soldier's brow, the very rain 
which fell upon his cheek — those glorious trees, so luxuriant in foliage and 
perfume — overarched the lane which led to — Home ! 



A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 479 

That home he could not see, for all was dark as chaos — but yonder from 
over the level field, afar, there came a single quivering ray of light. 

By that light — it was the fireside light of home — his father watched, and 
Alice — Ah ! she was there, toiling over some task of home, her thouglils 
fixed upon her absent lover. For Alice, you will understand me, was that 
jtiost to be pitied of all human creatures — an orphan child. She had been 
reared in the homestead of the Meadows; reared and protected from ten- 
derest childhood by the old man, even Michael's father. 

How the thgught that she was wailing for him, stirred the fire-coals at 
the soldier's heart ! 

Leaning from his steed, Michael the Soldier of Lee's Legion, unfastened 
the rustic gate which divided the lane from the road, and in a moment — Do 
you hear the sound of the horse's hoofs under the locust trees ? 
Ah, that fragrance from the snowy flowers, how it speaks Home ! 
Near and nearer he drew. Now he sees the wicket fence, that surrounds 
the old brick mansion— now, the tall poplars that stand about it, like grim 
sentinels — and now ! There is a thunder peal shaking the very earth, a 
lightning flash illumining the universe, and then the clouds roll back, and as 
a maiden from her lattice, so looks forth the moon from her window in 
the sky. 

There it lies, in the calm clear light of the moon. A mansion of dark 
brick, surrounded by a wicket fence painted white, with straight poplars en- 
circling it on every side. 

A whispered word to his horse, and the soldier dashes on ! 
He reaches the wicket fence, flings the rein on the neck of his steed, 
clears the palings at a bound, approaches yonder narrow, old-fashioned 

window, and looks in 

An old man, in a farmer's dress, with sunburnt face and while hair, sits 
alone, leaning his elbow on the oaken table, his cheek upon his hand. Near 
him the candle, flinging its beams over the withered face of the old man, 
around the rustic furniture of the uncarpeted room. 

The old man is alone. Alice is not there. Michael the soldier, gazes 
long and earnestly, and gasps for breath. For, in one brief year, his father 
sunk into extreme old age— his grey eyes, dim with moisture, his hair, 
which was grey, has taken the color of snow, his mouth wrinkled and 
fallen in. 

Michael felt a dim, vague, yet horrible foreboding cross his heart. 
Not daring to cross the threshhold, he gazed for a moment upon a window 
on the opposite side of ihe door. The shulters were closed, but it was her 
room, the chamber of Alice. See slept there— ah ! He laughed at his fears, 
smiled that horrible foreboding to scorn. She slept there, dreaming of him, 
her lover, husband. He placed his finger on the latch, his foot upon the 
threshhold. 

At this moment he felt a hand press his own, a knotted, toil-hardened 



480 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

Jiaiul. lie turned and beheld the form of a Negro, clad in coarse home- 
spun ; il was one of iiis father's slaves ; his own favorite servant, who had 
carried him in his brawny arms when but a cliild, lliirly years ago. 

" De Lor bress you, Masa Mikcl ! Dis ole iiigga am so glad you am 
come home !" 

A rude greeting, but sincere. Michael wrung the negro's hand, and ut- 
tered a question with gasping brealii : 

" Alii'e — she is well ! Alice, I say — do you hear Tony — she is well ?" 
In very common, but very expressive parlance — which I hope your critic 
will pick to pieces witii his claw, even as an aged but eccentric hen picks 
chad' fiom wlieat — the old slave showed the whites of his eyes. 

" Eh — ah !" he exclaimed, with a true African chuckle — " Do Massa 
Mikel ax de old nigga, ' Miss Alice well ?' Lor! Efyou had only see, 
yisserday, singin' on dis berry porch, like a robin in a locus' tree !" 

Michael did not pause to utter a word, but dashed his hand against the 
latch, and crossed tiie threshhold of home. 

At the same moment the old negro leaned his arms upon the banisters 
of the porch, bowed his head, and wept aloud. 

It was for joy. No doubt. Yes, with the true feeling of one of those 
faithful African hearts, which share in every joy and sorrow of the master, 
as thougli it were their own, the negro wept for joy. 

Meanwiiile, Michael rushed forward, and Hung his arms about the old 
man's neck. 

"Father,! am come home! Home for good — home for life! You 
know, some fourteen years ago, I left this place a boy, I came back a man, 
a Soldier! A year ago, I left you for my last campaign — it is over — we've 
beat the Injius — and now I'm goin' to live and die by your side !" 

The old man looked up, and met the joyous glance of those large grey 
eyes, surveyed the high, straight forehead, and the muscular form, and then 
silendy gathered the hands of his boy within his own. 

" God bless you, Michael !" he said, in a clear, deep voice, yet with a 
strong German accent. 

" I5ut what's the matter, father ? You don't seem well — ain't j-ou glad 
to see me ? I/Ook here — I've brought this old sword home as a present for 
you. Not very handsome, you'll say, but each of those dents has a story 
of its own to tell. You see that deep notch ? Tiial was made by the cap 
of a Britisher, at Paulus Hook, and this— but God bless me ! Father, you 

are sick — you " 

The old man tusned his eyes away, and pressed with a silent' intensity 
the hands of his son. 

" Sit down Michael, I want to talk with you." 

Michael slid into a huge oaken arm chair ; it was placed before the 
hearth, and opposite a dark-panelled door, which opened into the next 
chamber — the chamber of Alice. 



A TtlADITION OF TUn TWO WORLDS. 4^1 

The old man was silent. His liead had sunken on his breast : !iis hands 
relaxed tlieir grasp. 

Michael gazed upon him with a vague look of surprise, and then his eyes 
wandered to the dark-panelled door. 

" Siie is asleep, Father ? — Shall I go to the door and call her, or will you ? 
Ah, the good girl will be so glad to see me !" 

Still the old man made no answer. 

" Ah ! I see how it is — he's not well — glad to see me, to he sure, but old 
age creeps on him." Thus murmuring, Michael sprang to his feet, seized 
the light, and advanced to the dark-panelled door. " You see, father, I'll go 
myself. It will be such a surprise to her ! I'll steal softly to her bed-side, 
bend over her pillow— ha ! ha ! The first news she will have of my return, 
will be my kiss upon her lips !" 

He placed his fingers on the latch. 

The old man raised his head, beheld him, and started to his feet. With 
trembling steps, he reached the side of his son. 

" My son," he cried, invoking the awful name of God, " do not enter 
that room !" 

You can see Michael start, his chivalrous face expanding with surprise, 
while the light in his hand falls over the wrinkled features of his father. 
Those features wear an expression so utterly sad, woe-begone, horror strick- 
en, that Michael recoils as though a death-bullet had pierced his heart. His 
hand, as if palsied, shrinks from the latch of the door. 

For a moment there was a pause like death. You can hear the crackling 
of the slight fire on the hearth — the hard breathing of the old man — but all 
beside is terribly still. 

" Father, what mean you ? I tell you, I can face the bloodiest charge of 
bayonets that ever mowed a battlefield of its living men, but this — I know 
not what to call it— this silence, this mystery, it chills, yes, it frightens, me !" 

Still the old man breathed in hollow tones, marked with a deep guttural 
accent, the name of God, and whispered — 

" My son, do not enter that room !" 

" But it is the room of Alice. She is to be my wife to-morrow — no ! she 
IS my wife, plighted and sworn, at this hour ! It is the room of .11 ice." 

The voice sunk to a whisper, at once deep and pathetic, as he spoke the 
last words. 

" Come, Michael, sit by me ; when I have a little more strength, I will 

tell you all." 

The old man motioned with his right hand, toward a seat, but Michael 
stood beside the dark-panelled door, his sun-burnt face grown suddenly pale 
as a shroud. 

At last, with measured footsteps, he approached the door, grasped the 
latch, and pushed it open. The light was in his hand. Her room lay open 
to his iraze, the chamber of Alice, yet he was afraid to— look. 



48B ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

Do you see him standing on the ihreshhold, the hght extended in one hand, 
whih' the other supports his bowed liead, and veils iiis eyes ? 

" Father," he groaned, " her room is before nic, but I cannot look — I 
stand upon the threshhold, but dare not cross it. Speak" — and he turned 
wildly toward the old man — ■" Speak ! I implore yc — tell me the worst !" 

The old man stood in the shadows, his hands clasped, his eyes wild and 
glassy in their vacant stare, fixed upon the face of his son. No word passed 
his lips ; the horror painted on his countenance seemed too horrible for 
words. 

Michael raised his eyes and looked. 

It was there — the same as in the olden time — that chamber in which his 
mother had once slept — now the Chamber of Alice. 

Behold a small room, with the clean oaken lloor, covered by a homespun 
carpet; two or three high-backed chairs, placed against the while-washed 
walls ; a solitary window with a deep frame and snowy curtain. 

Holding the light above his head, Michael advanced. In the corner, 
opposite the door, stood a bed, encircled by hangings of plain white — those 
hangings carefully closed, descending in easy folds to the floor. 

The fearful truth all at once rushed upon the soldier's soul. She was 
dead. Her body enveloped in the shroud, lay within those hangings ; he 
could see the while hands, frozen into the semblance of marble, folded stiflly 
over her pulseless bosom, lie could see her face, — so pale and yet so 
beautiful, even in death, and the closed eyelids, the lashes darkening sofily 
over the cheek, the hair so glossy in its raven blackness, descending gently 
along the neck, even to the virgin breast. 

The curtains of the bed were closed, but he could see it all ! 

Afraid to look, and by a look confirm his fancy, he turned aside from the 
bed, and gazed toward the window. Here his heart was wrung by another 
sight. A plain, old-fashioned bureau, covered with a while cloth, and sur- 
mounted by a small mirror oval in form, and framed in dark walnut. 

That mirror had reflected her face, only a day past. Beside lay the 
Bible and Book of Prayer, each bearing on their covers tlie name of Alice 
— sacred memorials of the Dead Girl. 

This man Michael was no ])uling courtier. A rude heart, an unlettered 
soul was his. His embrowned hand had grasped the hand of death a thou- 
sand times. Yet that rude heart was softened by one deep feeling — that 
unlellcrcd soul, which had read its lessons of genius in the Book of Batde, 
written by an avalanclie of swords and bayonets, on the dark cloud of the 
battlefield — bowed down and worshipped one emotion. His love for Alice ! 
Next to his belief in an all-palernal God, he treasured" it. Therefore, when 
lie beheld these memorials of the Dead Girl, he IVll his heart conlract, ex- 
pand, writhe, within him. His iron limbs trembled ; he tottered, he fell 
forward on his kness, his face resting among the curtains of the bed. 



A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 483 

He dashed the cmtains aside — holding tlie light in his quivering hand, 
he gazed upon the secret of the bed — the dead body of Alice ? No ! 

The white pillow, unruffled by the pressure of a finger— the white cov- 
erlet, smooth as a bank of drifted snow, lay before him. 

Alice was not there. 

" Father !" he groaned, starling to his feet, and grasping the old man by 
both hands — •' She is dead ; I know it ! Where have you buried her ?" 

The father turned his eyes from the face of his son, but made no answer. 

" At least, give rae some token to remember her ! The bracelet which 
was my mother's — which a year ago, I myself clasped on the wrist of 
Alice !" 

Then it was that the old man turned, and with a look that never forsook 
the soul of his son until liis death hour, gasped four brief words : 

" Not dead, hut — lost !" he said, and turned his face away. 

Michael heard the voice, saw the expression of his father's face, snd felt 
the reality of his desolation without another word. He could not speak ; 
there was a choking sensation in his throat, a coldness like death, about 
his heart. 

In a moment the old man turned again, and in his native German, poured 
forth the story of Alice — her broken vows, and flight, and shame ! 

" Only this day she fled, and with a stranger !'' 

The son never asked a question inore of his father. 

One silent grasp of the old man's hand, and lie strode with measured 
steps, from the room, from the house. Not once did he look back. 

He stood upon the porch — the light of the moon falling upon his face, 
with every lineament tightened like a cord of iron — the eyes cold and glassy, 
the lips clenched and white. 

" Here," said he to the old negro, who beheld his changed countenance 
witii horror — " Here is all the gold I have in the world. I earned it by my 
sword ! Take it — I will never touch a coin that comes from this accursed 
soil." 

He passed on, spoke to Old Legion, leaped into tlie saddle, and was gone. 
The negro heard a wild laugh borne shrilly along the breeze. The old 
man who, with his white hairs waving in the moonbeams, came out and 
stood upon the porch, looked far down the lane, and beheld the white horse 
and his rider. The moon shone from among the rolling clouds with alight 
almost like day ; the old man beheld every outline of that manly form — saw 
his cap of fur and steel, and waving cloak, and iron sword in its iron slieath. 

Yet never once did lie behold the face of his son turned back toward his 
childhood's home. 

On and on I Never mind the fence, with its high rail and pointed stakes. 
Clear it with a bound, Old Legion ! On and on ! Never mind the road ; 
the wood is dark, the branches intermingle above our heads, but we will 

57 



484 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

(lash through the darkness, Old Legion. On, on, on ! Never heed the 
tirook that brawls before us ; it is a terrible leap, from the rock which arises 
here, to the rock which darkens yonder, but we must Icnp it, Old Legion ! 
Sdh, my brave old boy ! Through the wood again ; along this hollow, up 
the hillside, over the marsh. Now the thunder rolls, and tlie lighlnincr 
flashes out ! — hurrah ! Many a battle we have fought together, but this is 
the bravest and the last ! 

— And at last, the blood and sweat, mingling on his white Hanks, the 
gallant old horse stood on the Rock of the Chesepeake, trembling in every 
limb. 

Mieliacl looked far along the waters, while the storm came crashinn- down 
again, and, by the lightning glare, beheld a while sail, raking masts, and a 
dark hull, careering over the waters. Now, like a mighty bird, diving into 
the hollows of the watery hills, she was lost <o view. And now, still 
like a niighly bird, outspreading her wings, she rose again, borne by the 
swell of a tremendous wave, as if to the very clouds. 

A very beautiful sight it was to see, even by the light of that lurid flash — 
this thing, with the loiiix dark hull, the raking masts and the while sail ! 

She came bounding over the bay ; the wind and waves bore her towards 
the rock. 

In a moment the resolution of Michael was taken. One glance toward 
the white sail, one upon the darkened sky, and then he quietly drew his 
pistol. 

" Come, Old Legion," — he said, laying his hand upon the mane of the 
old horse — " You are the only friend I ever trusted, who did not betray me !" 

The first word he had spoken since the old man whispered " Lost," in 
his ears. 

" Come, Old Legion, your master is about to leave his native soil forever ! 
He cannot take you with him. Yondcr's the sail that must bear him away 
from this accursed spot forever, lie cannot take you with him, Old Legion, 
but he will do a kind deed for you. No one but Michael ever crossed your 
back, nor shall you ever bear another ! Your master is about to kill you, 
Old Legion !" 

Nearer drew the while sail — nearer and nearer ! — The sailors on the 
deck beheld that strange sight, standing out from the background of the dark 
clouds — the rocks, the while horse and the dismounted soldier, with the 
pistol in his hand. 

They saw the white horse lay his head against his master's breast, they 
heard his long and piercing neigh, as though the old sieed felt the batde 
trump stir his blood once more. 

They heard the report of a pistol ; saw a human form spring wildly into 
the waves ; while the white horse, dropping on his fore-legs, with the blood 
streaming from his breast, upon the rock, raised his dying head aloft, and 
uttered once more that long and piercing howl. 

I 



A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 495 

They saw a heail rising above the waves — then all was dark night again. 
There was hurrying to and fro upon the vessels deck ; a rope was thrown ; 
voices, hoarse with shouting, mingled with the thunder-peal, and at last, as 
if by a miracle, the drowning man was saved. 

" What would you here ?" exclaimed a tall, dark-bearded man, whose 
form was clad in a strangely mingled costume of sailor and bandit—" What 
would you here ?" 

As he spoke, he confronted the form of Michael, dripping from head to 
foot with spray. The lightning ilKimined both forms, and showed the 
sailors who looked on, two men, worthy to combat with each other. 

" Come you as a friend or foe ?" the hand of the dark-bearded man sought 
his dirk as he spoke. 

The lightning glare showed Michael's face ; its every lineament colored 
in crimson light. There was no quailing in his bold grey eye, no fear upon 
his broad, straight forehead. 

Even amid the storm, an involuntary murmur of admiration escaped the 
sailors. 

" As a friend," — his voice, deep and hollow, was hearil above the war 
of the storm. " Only bear me from yonder accursed shore !" 

" But sometimes, when out upon the sea, we hoist the Black Flag, with 
a Skull and Crossbones prettily painted on its folds. What say you now ? 
Friend or Foe ? Comrade or Spy ?" 

" I care not how dark your Hag, nor how bloody the murder which ye 
do upon the sea — all I ask is this : Bear me from yonder shore, and I am 
your friend to the death!" 

And swelling with a sense of his unutterable wrongs, this bravest of the 
brave, 'even Michael of Lee's gallant Legion, extended his hand and grasped 
the blood-stained fingers of the Pirate Chief. 

Then, the wild hurrah of the pirate-band mingled with tlie roar of the 
thunder, and, as the vessel went quivering over the waters, the red glare of 
the licrhtning revealed the dark-bearded face of the Pirate Chief, the writhing 
countenance of the doomed soldier. 

Their hands were clasped. It was a Covenant of Blood. 



That nii'ht, while the Pirate-Ship went bounding over the bay, Michael 
flung himself upon the deck, near the door of the Captain's cabin, and slept. 
As he slept a dream came over his soul. 

Not a dream of the girl who had pressed her kiss upon his lip, and then 
betrayed him, not a vision of Lost Alice. No ! Nor of the grey-haired 
father, who stood on the porch, gazing after the form of his son, with his 
white hair floating in the moonbeams. 

Nor ever of that gallant horse, that white-maned old Legion, ' the only 
friend he liad trusted, that never betrayed him !' No ! 

59 



486 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

But of a balile '. Not only of one battle, but a succession of battles, that 
seemed to whirl their awful slorm of cannon and ba)-oncl and sword, not 
merely over one country, but over a woild. The heaps of dead men that 
Miohael saw in his sleep, made the blood curdle in his veins. It seemed 
as though the People of a World had died, and lay rotting nnburied in the 
gorges of mountains, on the gentle slopes of far-extending plains ; in the 
streets of cities, too, they lay packed in horrible compactness, side by side, 
like pebbles on the shore. 

Many strange things Michael saw in this, his strange dream ; but amid 
all, he behelil one face, whose broad, expansive brow, and deep, burning 
ej-es, seemed to woo his soul. Tiiat fare was everywhere. Sometimes 
amid the grey clouds of battle, smiling calmly, while ten thousand living 
men were mowed away by one battle blast. Sometimes by the glare of 
burning cities, this face was seen : its calm sublimity of expression, — that 
beautiful forehead, in which a soul, greater than earth, seemed to make its 
home, those dark eyes which gleamed a supernatural fire — all shone in 
terrible contrast, with the confusion and havoc that encircled it. 

That face was everywhere. 

And it seemed to Michael as he slept, that it came very near him, and as 
these scenes passed rapidly before his eyes, that the face whispered three 
words. 

These words Michael never forgot ; strange words they were, and these 
are the scenes which accompanied them. 

Thcjiurt word: — A strange city where domes and towers were invested 
with a splendor at once Barbaric and Oriental, with flames whirliiin- about 
these domes and towers, while the legions of an invading Host shrank back 
from the burning town by tens of thousands, into graves of ice and snow. 
The face was there looking upon the mass of lire — the soldiers dying in 
piles, wirii a horrible resignation. 

The second word: — He saw — but it would require the eloquence of some 
Fiend who delights to picture Murder, and laugh while he fills his horrible 
canvass with the records of infernal deeds, — yes, it calls for the eloquence 
of a fiend to delineate this scene. We cannot do it. We can only say that 
Michael saw some peacefid hills and valleys crowded as if by millions of 
men. There was no counting the instruments of murder which were gath- 
ered there ; cannon, bayonets, swords, horses, men, all mingled together 
and all doing their destined work — Murder. To Michael it seemed as if 
these cannons, swords, bayonets, horses, men, murdered all day, and did not 
halt in their bloody communion, even when the night came on. 

The Face was there ! 

Yes, it seemed to Michael, in this his strange dream, that the Face was 
the cause of it all. For the Kings of the Earth, having (or claiming) a 
Divine Commission lo Murder, each one on his own account, hated fer- 
vently this Face. Hated zealously its broad forehead and earnest eyes. 



I 



A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 457 

Hated it so much, ll.at they assembled a World to cut it into pieces, and 
liack its memory from the liearts of men. 

Miciiaei in his dream saw this face grow black, and sink beneath an 
ocean of blood. It rose no more ! 

Yes, it rose again ! When ? 

The third tvord was spoken, it rose again. Michael saw this face— 
with its awful majesty and unutterable beauty— chained to a rock, yet 
smiling all the while. Smiling, though all manner of unclean beasts and 
birds were al)out it— here a vulture slowly picking those dark eyes ;— there 
a jackal with its polluted paw upon that forehead, so sublime even in this 
sad hour. 

And it seemed to Michael tint amid all the scenes, which he had beheld 

in this his terrible dream, that die last that glorious face, smilino- even 

while it was chained to a rock, tortured by jackals and vultures, was most 
terrible. 



With a start, Michael awoke. 

The first gleams of day were in the Eastern sky and over the waters. 
His strange, fearful dream was yet upon his soul ; those three words seemed 
ringing forever in his ears. 

As he arose, something bright glittered on the deck at his feet. He 
stooped and gathered it in his grasp. It was his — mother's bracelet. An 
antique thing ; some links of gold and a medallion, set with a fragment of 
gloss)' dark hair. 

How came it there ? upon the Pirate Ship, out on the waves ? 

Michael pressed it to his lips, and stood absorbed in deep thought. 

While thus occupied, the muttered conversation of two sailors, who stood 
near him, came indistincdy to his ears. Far be it from me to repeat the 
horrid blasphemies, the hideous obscenities of these men, whom long days 
and nights of crime, had embruted into savage beasts. Let me at once tell 
you that a name which they uttered, coupled with many an oath and jest, 
struck like a knell on Michael's ear. Another word — he listens — turns and 
gazes on the cabin door. 

These words may well turn to ice the blood in his veins. 

For as they blaspheme and jest, a laugh — wild, yet musical, comes echo- 
ing through the cabin door. 

As Michael hears that laugh, he disappears in the darkness of the com- 
panion-way, holding the bracelet in his hand. 

An hour passed — day was abroad upon the waters — but Michael appeared 
on deck no more. 

In his stead, from the companion-way, there came a stout, muscular 
man, clad in the coarsest sailor attire, his face stained with ochre, a close- 



488 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

fitting skull-cap drawn over his forehead, even to the eyebrows. A rude 
Pirate, this, somewhat manly in the expansion of his cliest, no doubt, but 
who, in the uncouth shape, before us, would recognize tlie Hero of the 
Legion, the bravest of the brave ? 

He was leaning over the side of tlie ship, gazing into the deep waves, 
when the door of the Pirate Captain's cabin was opened, and liie Captain 
appeared. You can see his muscular form, clad in a dress of green, laced 
with gold, plumes waving aside from his swarthy brow, his limbs, encased 
in boots of soft doe-skin. Altogether, an elegant murderer ; an exquisite 
Pirate, from head to loot. 

Tlie rude sailor — or Michael, as you please to call him — leaning over the 
side of the ship, heard the Pirate Captain approach, heard the light footstep, 
which mingled its echoes with the sound of his heavy tread. I/ight foot- 
step '. Yes, for a beautiful woman hung on the Pirate's arm, her form, 
clad in the garb of an Eastern Sultana, her darkly-tlowing.hair relieved by 
the gleam of pearls. 

As she came along the deck, she looked up tenderly into his face, and 
her light laugh ran niorrily on the air. 

Michael turned, beheld her, and survived the horror of that look ! She 
knew him not ; the soldier and hero was lost in his uncouth disguise. 

It was — AucE. 



Let us now hurry on, over many days of blood and battle, and behold 
the Pirate Ship sunk in the ocean, its masts and shrouds devoured by flames, 
■while the water engulfed its hull. X 

Three persons alone survived that wreck. You see them, yonder, by 
the light of the morning sun, borne by a miserable raft over tiie gently 
swelling waters. 

Three persons, who have lived for days or nights without bread or water. 
Let us look upon them, and behold in its various shapes the horrors of 
famine. 

In that wretched form, laid on his back, his hollow cheeks reddened by 
the sunbeams, his parched eye-balls upturned to the sky, who would recog- 
nize the gallant — Pirate Chief? 

By his side crouches a half-clad female form, beautiful even amid horrors 
worse than death, ahliougli her eyes arc fired with unnatural light, her 
cheek flushed with the unhealthy redness of fever, her lips burning in their 
vivid crimson hues. Starvation is gnawing at her vitals, and yet she is 
•beautiful; look — iiow wavingly her dark hair floats over her snowy shoul- 
ders ! Is this — Alice ? 

The third figure, a rude sailor, his face stained with dark red hues, a 
skull-cap drawn down to his eyebrows. Brave Michael, of Lee's Legion. 



A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 489 

He sits willi his elbows resliiig on his knees, his cheeks supported by his 
iiands, while his ej-es are turned to the uprising sun. 

A groan quivers along the still air. It is the last howl of the Pirate 
Chief; with that sound — halt'-blaspiiemy, half-prayer — he dies. 

His bride— so beautiful, even yet amid famine and despair — covers his ' 
lips with kisses, and at last, grasping tiie sailor by the arm, begs him to 
save the life of her— husbanJ ! 

The sailor turns, tears the cap from his brow ; the paint has already 
gone from his face. 

Alice and Michael confront each other, alone on that miserable raft, a 
thousand miles from shore. 

Who v/ould dare to paint the agony of her look, the horror of the shriek 
which rent her bosom ? 

Only once she looked upon him— then sunk stiffened and appalled beside 
her pirate husband. But a calm smile illumined Michael's face ; he towered 
erect upon the quivering raft, and drew some bread and a flagon of water 
— precious as gold — from the pocket of his coarse sailor jacket. 

" For you," he said, in that low-toned voice with which he had plighted 
his eternal troth to her^" For you I have left my native land. For you I 
have left my father, alone and desolate in his old age. For )'ou — not by 
any means the least of all my sufferings — I have killed the good old war- 
horse, the only friend whom I ever trusted, that did not betray me. For 
you, Alice, I am an outcast, wanderer, exile ! Behold my revenge ! You 
are starving — I feed you — give you meat ajid drink. Yes, I, Michael, your 
plighted husband — bid you live.'" 

He placed the bread and water in her grasp, and then turned with folded 
arms to gaze ^en <he rising sun. Do yon see that muscular form, tower- 
ing from the rafi — his high, straight forehead, glowing in the light of the 
davining day ? 

He turned again : there was a dead man at his feet ; a dead woman 
before his eyes. 

There may have been agony at his heart, but his face was unsoftened by 
emotion. With his lineaments moulded in iron rigidity, he resumed his 
gaze toward the rising sun. 

At last, a sail came gleaming into view — then the hull of a man-of-war — 
and then, bright and beautiful upon the morning air, fluttered the glorious 
emblem of Hope and Promise — the tri-colored Flag of Fran'ce. 



Years passed, glorious years, which beheld a World m motion for its 
rights and freedom. 

There came a day, when the sun beheld a sight like this : — A man of 
noble presence, whose forehead, broad, and high and straight, shone with 



490 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

the chivalry of a greal soul, stood erect, in the presence of liis execu- 
tioners. 

Those executioners, iiis own soldiers, who shed tears as they levelled 
their pieces at his heart. 

This man of noble presence was ffuilty of three crimes, for which the 
crowned robbers of Europe could never forgive iiini. 

lie had risen from the humblest of the people, and became a General, a 
Marshal, a Duke. 

He was the friend of a greal and good man. 

In the hour of this great and good man's tri;d, when all tlie crowned 
robbers, the anointed assassins of Europe, conspired to crush him, tliis 
General, Marshal and Duke refused to desert the great and good man. • ■ 

For this he was to be shot — shot by his own soldiers, who could not 
restrain their tears as they gazed in his face. 

Let us also go there, gaze upon him, mark each outline of his face and 
form, just at the moment when the musquets are levelled at his heart, and 
answer the question — Does not this General, Marshal, Duke, now slaml- 
injT 1/1 presence of his Death' s-men, slrani^cly resemble that Michael whom 
tre have seen on the banks of the Chesapeake — the Hero of Lee's Legion 
— Bravest of the Brare i" 

Ere the question can be answered, the Hero waves his hand. Looking 
his soldiers lixedly in the face, he exclaims in that voice which they have 
so often heard in the thickest of the fight — 

" .\T MV IIKART, COMRADES !'* 

As he falls, bathed in blood, the victim of a >' Holy Assassination," let 
US learn what words were those which brave Michael, long years .igo, 
heard whispered in his dream, what face was that, which, ifilh its subhme 
forehead and earnest eyes, spoke these wonls ? Let us also learn who 
vas this soldier Michael, of Lee's Lesrion ' 

The words '. The first, Moscow — the second, Waterloo — tlie third, 
St. Helena. 

This soldier of Lee's Legion, the bravest of the brave ? 
MICHAEL NEY. 



NOTE BY THE ATTHOR.— The id.-a of a LegfnJ on iMs subjfct. was first 
suffiiosied by an nble articJe. in a laie number of the Souihern Literary .MessenEer. 
which (iresenis the most plausihle reasons, in favor ot" the identity ot' Major Michael 
Rudolph, ol" Lee's Leaion. with Michael .Vey. the .Marshal and tlero ot Franc«, wh« 
was basely murdered, at'ter the battle ol" Warialoo. • 

III rhis article, it is distinctly stated that in personal appearance Ney and Rndolph 
were strikingly sitnilar. both described as follows: " Fiv*' ffrl tijkt im-hft in kri^l-l 
— a mufcutar man tkotis;h not fat — vf ki^M, llat /*rtMeod, grmy ryti, strmi^kt ryrirvws, 
ftrftminrHt ckrrk-bonrs, and fair eompif'xiom.* 

.■Viler a brilliant career in the Revoliiiionary War, and a campaign under Wayne, 
ainon; the Indians. M.tjor Rudolph returned to his home, on the shores of the Cfaiesa- 
eake. alter a year's absence, and remained I'or the nighl at the residence of a brother, 
'o quote the exact words of the article. 



^ 



THE NINTH HOUR. 491 



ii.-THE NINTH Horn. 

The lime was 1778 — tlie place, an olJ-iimc mansion, among the hills of 
Valley Foi'ije. 

Yonder, in a comfortable chamber, seated before a tabic, overspread with 
papers, you behold a gentleman of some fifty six years, attired in black 
velvet, with an elegant dress sword by his side, snow-white rulllos on his 
wrists and breast. By the glow of the lire, which crackles on the spacious 
hearth, you can discern the face of this gentleman, the wide and massive 
brow, ilie marked features, and the clear, deep grey eyes. As he sits erect 
in llie cushioned armchair, you can at a glance perceive that he is a man 
of almost giant stature, with muscular limbs and iron chest. 

And snow drifts in while masses on yonder hills, which you behold 
through the deep silled windows ; and the wind, moaning as with a nation's 
dirge, howLs dismally tlirough the deep ravines. 

Still ilie genileman, with the calm face and deep grey eyes, sits in silence 
there, his features glowing in the light of the hearth-side flame, while a 
pleasant smile trembles on his compressed lips. 

Altogether, he is a singidnr man. His appearance impresses us with a 
strange awe. We dare not approach him but with uncovered heads. The 
papers which overspread the table, impress us with a vague curiosity. 
There you behold a letter directed to General the Marquis de La Fayette ; 
another bears the name of General Anthony Wayne ; a third General Uene- 
dict Arnold ; and thai large pacquet, with the massive seal, is inscribed with 
the words — To His Excellency, John Hancock, President of the Continen- 
tal Congress. 

This gentleman, silting alone in the old-fashioned chambiT, his form clad 
in black velvet, his face glowing in mild light, must be, then, a person of 
some consideration, perchance a warrior of high renown .' 



" Ht-rc, ht> lislenit to n domattic revefntioJi of thf tnont crvrl andltumilinthig rharacter 
— 0/ surli a.'orl.as lo ilrlcrmiric nol again lo riliini In liis I'amilij. • * • Tlir next 
ve /liar of /liin. in ait aih'rritlircr, aholit to nail from, tin' Clifsafit-ahi'. in a small vessel^ 
laden wi'lli toliaccn, and dentined to St. Doininffo. or to a port in France.'^ 

Tlie ric.M iiuclligeiice of him, comes Irom Ilovoluiiuiiiiry Frniioc. He soon disap- 
pears, and Ney, a man strikingly similar in appearance and traits of character, rises into 
view. 

Ney spoke English fluently ; was viewed as a foreigner by the French, and called in 
deri.sio^ihe '* Foreign 'I'obaeco Merchant." 

In slSi-t, the evidence placed liel'ure ns, in this arliclc — whiehourwant of space will 
not perinii us to quote in lull— seems almost conclusive, on the important point, that Ney 
mid Rudipl|ili were the .lame man. While on this topic, we may remark, that lierna- 
done, the Kiiii; of .Sweden, wn.f a .■soldier in our Kcvolution. The reader will of course 
undiTslaiid, that in onr I,e.iend above <;ivcn, we are alone responsible lor the details, us 
well as all variations Irurn the plain narrative of fads. 

Whether true or fal.se, it is a splendid subject for a Pieluro of the Past: That the 
saniT' heroic Lej;ion of I.ee, which earned lor iiself imperishable renown, in the daik 
times of Revoluiion, also ranked among its Iioii-.Vlcn, the guUant Marshal Ney, the 
Bravest of the Brave. 



492 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

As you look in mingled woiulcr and reverence upon his commanding 
face, the sound of a heavy footstep is heard, and a grim old soldier, clad in 
the hunting shirt of the Revolution, appears in yonder doorway, and ap- 
proaches the gentleman in black velvet. 

Ho lifts the rude cap willi bucktail plume from his sunburnt brow, and 
accompli.-^hes a rough salute. Then, he speaks in a voice which may have 
been rendered hoarse by much shouting in battle, or sleeping dark winter 
nights on the uncovered ground. 

" General, I heer'd you wanted lo speak to me, and I am here." 

The gentleman in black velvet, raised his clear grey eyes, and a slight 
smile disturbed the serenity of his face. 

" Ah, Sergeant Caleb, I am glad to see you. I want your aid in an un- 
dertaking of great importance. '' 

" Say the word, and Caleb's your man I" 

" Nine miles from the mansion, at four o'clock this afternoon, the ' Loyal 
Rangers of Valley Forge,' hold their meeting. Their captain, a desperate 
man, has prepared a number of important papers for Sir AVilliam Howe. 
In these papers are recorded the names of all persons within ten miles, who 
are friendly to the British cause, or who are willing to supply Sir "SVilliara 
with provisions, together with a minute description of the affairs and pros- 
pects of the Continental army. Al four this afternoon, these papers will be 
delivered to an officer of the British army, who is expected from Philadel- 
phia in the disguise of a farmer. That officer is now a prisoner near our 
headquarters on the Schuylkill, some six miles from this place. You — un- 
derstand me, Sergeant Caleb — you will assume this disguise, hurry to the 
Tory rendezvous, and receive the papers from the hands of the Captain." 

As the gentleman spoke, the countenance of the old soldier assumed an 
expression of deep chagrin. The corners of his mouth were distorted in 
an expression of comical dismay, while his large blue eyes expanding ia 
his sunburnt face, glared with unmistakable horror. 

lie had been with Arnold al Quebec, with Washington at Brandywine, 
this hardy Sergeant Caleb — but to go to the Tory rendezvous in disguise, 
was to act the part of a Spy, and the robber-captain of the Tories would 
put him to death, on the first rope and nearest tree, as a — Spy ! 

Therefore the old Sergeant, who had played with death as witli a boon 
companion, when he came in the shape of a sharp bayonet, or a dull can- 
non ball, feared him when he appeared in the guise of a — Gibbet ! 

" You are not afraid ?" said the gentleman. " That will be news in- 
deed, for the soldiers ! Sergeant Caleb Ringdale afraid !" 

The old Sergeant quivered from head to foot, as he laid his muscular 
hand upon the table, and exclaimed in a voice broken by an emotion not 
any the less sincere because it was rude : 

" Afeer'd ? Now Gineral Washington, it isn't kind to say that o' me ! 
I'm not afeer'd of anythin' in the shape of a white or black human bein', 



THE NINTH HOUR. 493 

but this tory Cap'in Runnels, is a reg'lar fiend, anil that's a fact nobody 
can deny !" 

" Do you fear liim ?" 

" Not a peg ! For all he's the bloodiest villain that over murdered a 
man in the name of King George — for all he hides himself in the darkest 
lioUow, in the meanest, old, out-of-the-way farm-house, I don't fear, no 
more than I feer'd them ten Britishers that fell on me at Paoli ! But do 
you see, Gineral, I don't like the idea of goin' as a spy ! Tliat's what 
cuts an old feller's feelin's ! Say the word, and I'll go, just as I am, in my 
own proper unit'orm — not very handsome, yet still the rale Continental — 
an' tell the Britishers to crack away, and be hanged !" 

And in the honest excitement of the moment, the old Sergeant brought 
his closed hand to bear upon the table, until the papers shook again. 

Washington rested his cheek upon his hand, while his face was darkened 
by an expression of anxious thought. 

" You do not wish to go as a spy, and yet there are no other means of 
securing these papers." 

You can see the old soldier stand confused and puzzled there, wiping the 
perspiration from his brow with his bony hand, while Washington turning 
his chair, folds his arms, and gazes steadily into the fire. 

" Is there no man who will undertake this desperate office in my name ? 
in the name of tiie cause for which we fight ?" 

And as the words passed his lips, a soft voice — almost as soft and 
musical as a woman's — uttered this reply, which thrilled the General to 
the heart : 

"There is. I will undertake it. General." 

Washington started from his chair. 

" You !" he exclaimed, surveying the intruder from head to foot. 

It must be confessed, that the expression of wonder which passed over 
the face of the American General, was not without a substantial cause. 

There in the glow of the fire, stood a young man, graceful and slender, 
almost to womanly beauty, and clad not in the dress of a soldier, but in the 
costume of a gendeman of fashion, a coat of dark rich purple velvet, satin 
vest, disclosing the proportions of a broad chest and wasp-like waist, dia- 
mond buckles on the shoes, and cambric rulHcs around each delicate hand. 

" You !" exclaimed Washington, " surely Ensign Murray, you are 
dreaming '." 

The face of the young man was somewhat peculiar. The skin very pale 
and delicate as a woman's. The hair, long and dark brown in color, wav- 
ing in rich masses to the shoulders. The eyes, deep and clear — almost 
black, and yet with a shade of blue — shone with an expression which you 
could not define, and yet it was at once calm, wild and dazzling. Indeed, 
gazing on those eyes, or rather into their clear lustre, yon could not divcsl 
yourself of the idea that they reflected the light of a strong intellect, at the 

60 



494 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

same time, an intellect shaken and warped by some pecnliar train of 

lllOlli(llt. 

" Yes, General," was the answer of Ensign Murray ; " at four o'clock, 
in the disguise of a British ollicer, I will enter the den of the Tories and 
receive those papers !" 

Washington took the young man by the hand, and wiliioul a word led 
him across the room. 

" J.ook there !" he whispered. 

" They stood beside a glass door, which opened the view into the next 
apartment, the drawins;-rooni of the mansion. 

As Ensign Murray looked, his pale yet handsome face was darkened by 
an expression of indefinable agony. 

'I'here, beside the lire of the next chamber was scaled a young girl, 
whose hair descended in curling masses along her cheek, until the)- touched 
her iierk. A green habit titling closely to her form, revealed its warm and 
bliioming proportions. She sat there alone, bending over an embroidery 
frame, her dark eyes gleaming with light, as tranquil as the beam of the 
evening star, upon the unrullled depths of a mountain lake. 

And MS her white lingers moved briskly over the llowers, which grew into 
life at lur lourh, she sang a low and murmuring song. 

" Look there '." whispered Washington, " and behold your bride ! To- 
night your wedding will lake place. This very morning I left Vallej- 
Forge, in order to behold your union with this beautiful and virtuous 
woman. And yet you talk of going in disguise into the den of robbers, 
who hesitate at no deed of cruelty or murder, and this on your bridul- 
eve !" 

There was a strange expression on the young man's face — a sudden con- 
tortion of those pale, handsome features — but in a moment all was calm 
again. 

" Ciencral, I will go," he said, " and return before sunset !" 

He stood before the Man of the Army, his slender form swelling as with 
the impulse of a heroic resolve. 

"George," said Washington, in a lone of kind familiarity ; "you must 
not think of this ! When your J'ather died in my arms at Trenton, I 
promised that I would, to the last breath of lite, be a father to his boy. 1 
will not, cannot, send you on this fearful enterprise !" 

" Look you '." cried the old Sergeant, advancing — " I don't like this of- 
fice of a -S);^ — but sooner than the young Ensign here should peril his life 
at suclian hour, I'll go myself! Jist set me down for that thing, will^ou '" 

" General !" said the Ensign, laying his white hand on the muscular arm 
of Washington, and speaking in a deep, deliberate voice, that was strongly 
contrasted with his effeminate appearance and slender frame — " did I be- 
have badly at IJrandywine ?" 

" Never a braver soldier drew sword, than you proved yourself on that 



THE NINTH HOUR. 495 

terrible day ! Twice with my own arm I liad to resUaiii you from rushing 
on to certain ;leath '." 

" At Germantown '" 

"I can speak lor him tliere, Gineral ! YonM ought to seen him rusliing 
up to Chew's liouse, into tlie very muzzk^s of tiie Hritisii ! He made 
many an old soldier feel foolish, I tell you !" 

" You were tlie last in the retreat, George, the last and the bravest!" 

" Then can you refuse me this one request ? Let me go — secure those 
papers — and come back crowned with laurels, to wed my bride !"' 

He spoke in a clear deliberate tone, anil yet there was a strange fire in 
his eye. 

Washington hesitated ; liis gaze surveyed the young man's face, and then 
turning away he wrung him by the hand : 

" On those papers, perchance, the safety of our army depends. Go or 
slay as you please. I do not command nor forliid !" 

With that word he resumed his seat, and bowed his head in the cfTort to 
peruse the documents w hich were scattered over the table. He bowed his 
head ver}' low, and yet there were tears in his eyes — tears in those eyes 
which had never quailed in the hour of batde, tears in the eyes of Wash- 
ington ! 

The yoimg luan turned aside into a dark corner of the room, and covered 
his AVecUling-Dress with a coarse grey over-coat, tliat reached from his chin 
to his knees. Tlieu he drew on long and coarse boots, over his slioes 
gemmed with diamond buckles. A broad-rimmed hat upon his cnrlinof 
locks, and he stood ready for the work of danger. 

" General," he said, in that soft musical voice — '• is there a watch-word 
which admits — ha, lia ! — the British officer into the Tory farm-house?" 

" Death to Washington !" and a sad smile gleamed over the General's 
face. 

" The name of the British officer whose character I am to assume ?" 

" ' Captain Jilgernon Edam, of His Majesty's Infantry !' — He is now 
under guard, near headquarters, at Valley Forge." 

" Hah !" gasped Ensign Murray. " Captain Edam !" 

" You know him, then !" 

" I have known Captain Edam," answered George Murray, with that 
strange smile which invested his face with an expression that was almost 
supernatural. 

" These papers will give you all requisite information. The farm-house 
is three miles distant from lliis place, and nine miles from Valley Forge." 

"Nine !" ejaculated the Ensign, with a sudden start. "Ah !" he nmt- 
tered in a whisper that would have penetrated your blood — " Must that hor- 
rible number always pursue me ? Nine years, nine days ! 'J'hese must 
pass, and then I will wed tny bride — ^but such a brile !" 

Washington lieard him murmur, but could not distinguish the words, yet 



496 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

he saw that pale face flusliing with unnatural crimson, while the deep blue 

eye glared with wild light. 

" Again let me entreat you to give up your purpose. Your danger is 
enough to appal the stoutest heart ! Not only death you dare, but death on 
the— gibbet!" 

In the earnestness of his feelings, Washington would have seized liim by 
the arm, but the Ensign retreated from his grasp, and left the room with 
his exclamation : 

" Farewell, General ! Do not fear for me ! Believe me, I will before 
the setting of yonder sun, attain the object which I so earnestly desire !" 

In the hall a new trial awaited the young soldier. He was confronted 
by a jovial old man, with a corpulent frame, round face and snow-white 
liair. It was Siiuire Musgrave, a fine specimen of the old fashioned gentle- 
man and — the father of his bride. 

" Hah, you young dog ! What trick is this ?" said the old Squire, with 
a jovial chuckle ; " you skulked away from the table just now, proving 
yourself a most disloyal traitor to old Madeira! And now 1 find you in 
this disguise ! Eh, Georgie ! What's in the wind ?" 

" Hush ! Not a word to 'Bel !" exclaimed the Ensignn^vitli a smile on 
his lips, and a look of affected mystery in his eyes. " Not a word, or 
you'll spoil a capital jest ! 

Tims speaking, he Hung himself from the old man, and stood upon the 
porch of the mansion. The beautiful country lay there before him, not 
lovely as in summer, with green leaves, perfume and flowers, but covered 
far up each hill, and down into tlie shades of each valley, with a manlle of 
frozen snow. The trees, their bared limbs upstarting into the deep blue 
sky, were gliltering with leaves and fruits, sculptured from the ice by- the 
finger of Winter. 

And the rich warm glow of the declining sun was upon it all— the old 
mansion, with its dark grey stone and antique porch, the far-extending hills 
and winding dales of Valley Forge. 

The Ensign stood upon the verge of the porch ; he was about to depart 
upon his enterprise of untold danger, when — 

A soft warm hand was laid upon his shoulder ; another was placed across 
his eyes, and a light lausjh thrilled him to the heart. 

" Oh, you look like the ogre of some goblin story !" said a voice which 
almost made him relent the stern purpose of that hour — " If you would only 
look in the glass and see yourself! Ha, ha, ha !" 

And as the soft hand was lifted from his eyes, George beheld the beauti- 
ful form and beaming face of hi^ — bride. 

" Softly, Isabel ! Not a word !" he whispered laughingly, " Or you will 
spoil one of the finest jests ever planned !" 
He pressed his kiss upon her warm ripe lips. 



I 



THE NINTH HOUR. 497 

" The Last !" he murmiirecl, as thai pressure of soul to soul through the 
mingling lips, fired every vein. 

He darted from the porch, and hurried on his way. Far over liie frozen 
snow he toiled along, and only once looked back. 

Willi that look of fearful anxiety he beheld his bride, standing on the 
porch, her long hair floating from her face, while her merry laugh came 
ringing to his ears. 

Did you ever in a nightmare dream, chance to behold a dark old man- 
sion, standing utterly alone in the shadows of a dell, encircled by steep 
hills, rough with rocks, and sombre with thickly clustered trees ? In this 
dell noonday is twilight, and twilight is midnight, so darkly frown tlie 
granite rocks, so lowering rise the forest trees. 

But this is in the summer time, wiien there are leaves upon the trees, and 
vines among the rocks. In tiie summer time when the little brook yonder, 
winding before tiie mansion, sings a rippling song in praise of the flowers, 
and moss, and birds. 

Now it is winter. Yonder, through the tall and leafless oaks, glares the 
red flush of the sunset sky. Every tree with its rugged limbs, and stripped 
branches, stands up against the western horizon, like a tree of ebony, 
painted on a sky of crimson and gold. Winter now ! 'l"he rocks, the 
hill-side, the very ice which covers the brook, is white with a mantle of 
snow, that gleams and blushes in the sunset glare. 

Still the old mansion rises in sullen gloom, its dark walls tottering as 
though about to fall, its shutters closed, its doorway crumbling into fragments. 
And like a white veil flung over some rufiian bandit's brow, the steep roof, 
covered with wreaths of snow, gleams above the dark grey walls. 

Is this old mansion tenanted by anything ihat wears the shape of man ? 
As we look, the leaning chimney sends up its column of blue smoke to the 
evening sky. Still for all that emblem of fireside comfort, the farm-house 
looks like a den for murderers. 

Look closely on its shutters and wide door, and you will perceive certain 
port-holes, made for the musquet and rifle. 

There are footsteps printed on the frozen snow, and yet you hear no 
voices, you behold no form of man or beast. 

At this hour, when the solemn flush of a winter sunset is upon the 
mantle of snow, there comes slowly toiling over the frozen crust, the figure 
of a young man clad in a coarse overcoat, with a broad-rimmed hat upon 
his brow. That coat gathers around his slender form in heavy folds, and 
yel it cannot hide the heavings of his chest. The hat droops low over his 
face, and yet cannot conceal the wild glance of those deep blue eyes. 

Urging his way along the frozen snow,— the shadow of his form thrown 
far and black behinil him— he stands before the battered door of the farm- 
house, he lifts the iron knocker, and a sound like a knell breaks on the 
still air. 



498 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

The young man listens eagerly, but no answer greets his summons. 
'I'lien turning his face to the evening sky, he stands erect upon liie granite 
stone before the door, and in a clear voice repeats the words — 

" Death to Washington !" 

There is the sound of an unclosing door, the young man is seized by un- 
known hands, and borne along a dark passage into a large and gloomy 
place. 

It may be a room, it may be a cavern, but all that greets his sight is a 
large fire, burning on a wide hearth, and Hashing a lurid glare over some 
twenty rulHan faces. 

A dark, a hideous picture ! 

A single form distinguished from the others by ils height, but wearing the 
pistols and knife, common to all, advances and confronts the stranger. The 
young man, in that lowering face marked by the traces of many a crime, 
recognizes " Black Runnels," the Tory Chief. 

" Wlience came you ?" 

As he speaks, a strange sound mingles with his words — the clicking of 
pistols, the clang of knives. 

" From the headquarters of General Sir William Howe !" the young 
man answered, in a clear deliberate voice. 

" Your object here ?" 

"The possession of certain papers prepared by Captain Runnels, for Sir 
William Howe." 

" Your name ?" 

"Algernon Edam, Captain in his Majesty's infantry !" replied the young 
man, in the same collected maimer. 

There was a murmur, a confused sound as of many voices whispering in 
chorus, and in a moment the blaze of a large lamp tilled that spacious room 
with light. 

" Now look ye. Captain," said the Tory leader, earnestly regarding the 
disguised American, " we don't doubt as how you are the rale Captain 
Edam, but we Loyal Rangers have a way of our own. We never trusts au 
individooal afore we tries his spunk. If you are a true Briton, you wont 
object to the trial. If so be you chances to prove a Rebel, why, we'll soon 
find it out." 

The answer of the young man was short and to the point : 

" Name your trial, and I am ready !" 

" Do you see that keg o' powder thar ? We'll attach a slow match to it 
— a match that'll take three minutes to burn out ! You will sit on that 
keg ! — Afore the three minutes is out, we'll return to the house, and see 
how you stand the trial ! If there's a drop of sweat on your forehead, or 
any sign of paleness on your cheek, we will conclude that you are a rebel, 
and deserve to die !" 



THE NINTH HOUR. 499 

The Tories gathered round, gazing in the young man's Lee with looiia 
of deep interest. 

"Pshaw !" exclaimed the ohject of their interest, " wliat need of this 
nonsense ? I am a British otliccr — but — what need of words, 1 ajn ready, 
and will stand the trial." 

Tlius speaking, lie saw the match applied to the keg, he saw it lighted, 
and took iiis seat. With a confused murmur, the Tories left the room. 

" Look ye," cried the last of their band, who stood in the doorway — it 
was the Captain — " we will conceal ourselves, where the blowing up of the 
Iiouse can do us no injury— that is, in case tlie worthless old den should 
happen to blow up. In two minutes we'll return. Take care o' yourself, 
Captain !" 

The young man was alone — alone in tiiat large old room, the light of the 
lamp falling over his brow, the keg beneath him, the match slowly burning 
near his feet. 

Why does he not extinguish the match, and at once put an end to this 
fearful danger? Wiiy does he sit there, tixed as a statue, his pale face 
wearing its usual calm expression, his deep blue eyes gleaming with their 
peculiar light ? 

Not a motion — not a movement of the hand which holds his watch — not 
a tremor of the face ! 

What are the thoughts of this young man, whom another minute may 
precipitate into eternity by a horrible death ? 

Does he think of the young bride, who even now awaits his coming? 

Two minutes have expired. Tlie Tories do not return. Slowly, surely 
burns the match — as calm, as fixed as marble, the young man awaits 
his fate. 

The half-minute is gone, and yet no sign of the bravoes. 

At last — O ! do not let your eyes wander from his pale, beautiful face, in 
this, the moment of his dread extremity— the match emits a sudden llame, 
sparkles, crackles, and burns out ! 

" Nine years, nine days ! At last, thank God, it is over !" 

These were his last words, before the powder exploded. He folded his 
arms, closed his eyes, and gave his soul to God. 

Did that lonely house ascend to heaven, a pyramid of blackening frag- 
ments, and smoke and flame, with the corse of the young man torn into 
atoms by the explosion ? 

For a moment he awaited his fate— all was silent. Then came the 
sound of trampling footsteps; the young man unclosed his eyes, and beheld 
the faces of the Tory band. 

" Game, I vow, game to the last !" cried the Tory leader. Runnels — 
" Do ye know we watched )-e all the while, from a crack in yonder door ? 
It was only a trial you know, but a trial that would have made many an 
older man than you shiver, turn pale, and cry like a babe ! — There's no 



500 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

powder in the keg — lia, ha ! HowM ye feel when the match burnt 
out '." 

" tiive me the papers," asked the brave younjj man. " Let me hasten 
on my way !" 

" t>, I don't object to jjivinsr you the papers," cried the Tory. " But, 
afore 1 do, I like to ask your opinion of tiiis gendcman ?" 

As he spoke, the Tories parted into two divisions ; in their centre ap- 
peared a man of sonic thirt}' yo.irs, his lali and muscular form chid in crim- 
son, his llorid face with powdered hair and liglit blue eye, rulHed by a 
sneering smile. 

" Captain Edam !" exclaimed the discruised American, completely taken 
by surprise — " I thought you were a prisoner, nine miles away at Valley 
Forge ;" 

" Yes, Captain Edam, at your service !" replied the British otlicer with 
a polite bow. 

As he spoke, a burst of hoarse launhler made the old room echo again. 

" It was well planned, my dear Ensign, liut it won't do !" exclain)ed the 
Briton ; — " I was a prisoner, but — escaped ! You were a British officer, a 
moment ago, but now, you are — a Spy. I presume it is needless to tell 
you the fate of a Spy." 

It was strange to see the calm smile which broke from the young En- 
sign's lips and eyes. 

" Death !" he replied, in liis low musical voice. 

" Death — aye, death by the rope !" shouted the Tory Captain ; — " I 
say, Watkins, rig a rope to that beam ! We'll show you how to play 
tricks on Loyal Rangers." 

The rope was attached to the beam — the noose arranged ; the Tories 
tilled with indignation, clustered round — still tiie young man stood cal.'u and 
smiling there. 

" Ensign, you have ten minutes to live," said the handsome British 
officer. " i\lake your peace. You have been taken as a sj»y, ami — ha, 
ha ! must be punished as a spy !" 

" 'i'hank God!" said the young man in a whisper, not meant to be 
audible, yet they heard it, every Tory in the room. 

" It seems to mc, young man, you're thankful for very small favors !" 
cried the Tory leader, with a brutal laugh. 

The gallant Captain Edam made a sign— the Tories trooped through the 
door-way. 

George Murray was alone with Algernon Edam. 

George Murray was pale — but not paler than usual — his blue eye.s 
glaring with deep light, his lip a lip of iron. Algernon Edam was tall and 
magnificent in his healthy and robust maidiood. There was ill-suppressed 
laughter in his light blue eyes. 

" Do you remember the days of our childhood, George, when we played 



THE NINTH HOUR. 501 

together on the hills of Valley Forge ? Liiile did we think that a scene 
like this would ever come to pass ! Here I stand, the rejected lover— ha, 
ha ! the British officer ! And there stands the betrothed hiiaband, the 
Rebel Spy ! Ha, ha, ha !" 

These were bitter taunts to pass between a living and a dying man ! Yet 
there was something in the words and look of Captain Edam that revealed 
the cause of all his ill-timed mirth— he was a rejected lover. His success- 
ful rival stood before him. 

No word passed llie lips of George, He regarded the elegant Captain 
with a calm smile, and coolly asked, as though inquiring the dinner hour — 
" How many minutes before I am to be hung ?" 

" You carry it bravely !" laughed the Briton ; " but think of Isabel !" 

Tlie only answer which escaped the lips of George, was a solitary 
syllable : 

" Al!" he said, and turned his smiling face upon the face of his enemy. 

That syllable made ihe Briton tremble from iiead to foot. It spoke to 
himof the happy days of old— of the green hills and pleasant dells of Valley 
Forge, — of two boys who were sworn friends — of George and Algernon. It 
also spoke of a laughing girl, wjio was the cousin of Algernon, the beloved 
of George — Isabel ! 

For that name was the familiar diminutive which George had often whis- 
pered in the ears of his boy-friend, flinging liis arms about his neck, and 
twining his hands in his golden hair. 

" Al, don't you remember the day, nine years and nine days ago, when 
in the presence of Isabel, you rescued me from a terrible danger ?" 

The words, the tone, the look, melted the heart of the undaunted Briton. 
There is a magic in the memory of childhood, irresistible as a voice from 
the lips of Death. 

" I do, George, I do !" he cried ; " and now, I am to be your — execu- 
tioner !" 

" To-night, is my wedding night, my friend — " 

" But I cannot save you !" gasped Edam ; his voice now deepened with 
the accent of irresistible agony — " we are surrounded — all hope is vain." 

" I do not want to be saved," said George, still preserving his quiet 
manner ; " lot me be put to death as suddenly and with as little pain as 
possiljle. But I have one request. When I am dead and you are safe in 
Philadelphia, write to Washington, and tell him, that I died like a man. 
Write to — Isabel — and tell her ' 

A large tear rolled down the Ensign's cheek. The Captain struggled 

to a seat. There was something unnaturally frightful in the calmness of 
the doomed man. 

" Tell her, that — pure and beautiful as she is— George Murray could 
never have made her life a life of peace and joy. Tell her that the last 
words which he spoke were these—' Algernon Edam is noble in hearti 

CI 



808 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

although he has espoused the British cause. Wed him, Isabel, for he loves 
you — wed hiiii, ;uid my blessing be upon you !' " 

The Captain, — to hide the agony of his feelings, uttered a horrible oath. 

" \\'hy cannot I aid you to escape ?" he cried, wildly pacing the room. 

" You can aid me to escape !" slowly uttered the doomed man. 

" How ? Name tlie method ! Quick — for 1 am yours— yours to the 
death !" 

" You can aid mc to escape from this horrible dream of life !" exohiimed 
Murray, lifting his brown hair with his delicate hand—" this dream wiiich 
torments me, which sits upon my soul like a nightmare, whicli makes me 
shudiler at tlie idea of a union with Isabel ! (), you may think me strange, 
mad ! — but talk as you will, my friend, 1 feel happier than I have felt for 
years !" 

While Edam stood horrified by his words, he removed the overcoat and 
hat, and stood revealed in his wedding-dress. 

"I tiioiight tliat Brandy wine would awaken me from this dream — O, how 
hard it is to pursue a grave, and feel it glide from your footsteps ! It was 
a bloody battle, but 1 lived ! Then, in the darkest hour of Germanlown, I 
saw my death in the mists before me, and leaped to grasp it, but in vain ! 
Still I lived ! 'i'he day of my marriage wore on, and there was no resource 
but suicide, until Washington informed me of lliis enterprise. Ah, my dear 
friend, give me your liand ; I feel very calm, aye, happy !" 

The Briton, or rather the British officer, (for by birth he was an Ameri- 
can,) instantly seized the slender hand, wrung it, and swore by his Maker 
that he should not die ! 

An expression, as strange as it was sudden, darkened the pale face of the 
doomed man. His blue eyes emitted wild and deadly light. Do you see 
him start forward, his slender and graceful form attired in his wedding- 
dress, his rich brown hair waving from his shoulders ? He seizes Edam 
by the wrist. 

" O, .Algernon, tvere my bitterest enemy beneath mi/ feel — one who had 
done a wrong too dark for mercy, or revenge — sooner t /urn sever his heart 
with viy knife, I would bid him live as I have lived for years .'" 

There is nothing in language to picture the utter horror of his look and tone. 

Captain Edam was dumb, but his face rellected the despair of George. 

"O, Algernon, I beseech you take Isabel, and be happy with her! At 
the same time 1 implore you aid me in my attempt to shake off this night- 
mare — life I" 

Captain Edam sank back on the empty keg, and buried his face in his 
hands. 

Y''ou can see Murray stand there before the fire, contemplating him with 
a calm smile. 

" Hark ! they come !" cried tlie British officer, starting to his feet and 



THE NINTH HOUR. 503 

drawing his sword. " Tiiey come to put you to dc.illi, but not wliilc I am 
alive." 

There was the sound of trampling feet — a confused murmur — then the 
tliuudpr of many rifle shots mingled in one deafening report, broke on the 
silence of the hour. 

George's countenance fell. 

" Stand back !" shouted Captain Edam — " approach this room, and I will 
fire! Hark! Do you iiear, George ? They dispute among themselves! 
There is a division — we must save you ! Do you lioar those shouts?" 

As he spoke, the door opened, and there, on the thrcshhold, stood a bluff, 
hearty ligure, attired in the Continental uniform. 

" The Gineral sent me on your track !" exclaimed the hoarse voice of 
Sergeant Caleb. " The Tories is captured and you are saved, you dare- 
devil of an Ensign ! I say, Mister, in tiie red jacket, won't you give up 
your sword ?" 

As the honest veteran received the sword of Captain Edam, George 
turned aside and buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame shook 
with emotion, with agony. 

" Foiled again ! ' Nine years, nine daysP I must submit— it is Fate '■ 
The ninth hour is near! Ah ! why is death denied to me 2" 

The old clock in the hall smiled in the light, its minute hand pointing to 
30, its hour hand to 9. 

The wedding guests were assembled. Far over the frozen snow, from 
every window, gushed a stream of joyous light. 

Grouped in the most spacious apartment of Squire Musgrave's mansion, 
the wedding guests presented a sight of some interest. 

The light of those tall wax candles was upon their faces. 

Washinglon was there, towering above the heads of other men, his mag- 
nificent form clad in the blue coat and buff vest, with his sword by his side. 
By his side, the high brow and eagle eye of Anthony Wayne. Yonder, a 
gallant cavalier, attired in the extreme of fashion, with a mild blue eye, and 
clustered locks of sand-hued hair— the chivalrous La Fayette ! 

And there, standing side by side, were two young men, engaged in affa- 
ble conversation. 

One, with a high forehead, deeply indented between the brows— tlie other, 
a man'of slender^frame, with a delicately-chiselled face, and eyes that seem 
to burn you, as he speaks, in that low, soft voice, which wins your soul. 

Who, that beholds these young men, calmly conversing together, on this 

wedding-night, would dream that one was destined to die by the other's 

hand. For" the one with the deeply-indented brow is Alexander Hamilton, 

the other, with the sculptured face, and magical eyes and voice, is Aaron Burr. 

In the centre of the scene stood a group, the objects of every eye. 



604 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

The Preacher in his dark gown, on one side ; the good-humored Squire, 
with his jocund face and corpulent form, on the other. 

Between them, under lliat chandelier, which warms their faces with a 
mild light, stand tiie bride and briegroom. 

Siie, in a dress of stainless white satin, whicli displays the beautiful out- 
lines of her bust and waist, and by its short skirt permits you to behold 
those small feet, encased in delicate slippers. Her neck, her shoulders, 
gleam like alabaster in the light. A single ornament — a cross of diamonds 
and gold — suspended from the neck, rises and falls with every pulsation of 
her heart. And from the (lowing world of her dark hair, which freely 
courses from her brow to the shoulders, looks out a face, at once young, 
innocent, angelic I 

Ever and again, glancing sidelong, she turns her large eyes towards the 
bridegroom, while a soft crimson (lushes imperceptibly over her face. 

The bridegroom is very p;dc, but calm and sedate. Ilis dark blue eyea 
gleaming from the pallor of that delicately chiselled face, return the glance 
of his bride with a look at once earnest and indefinable. Is it love ? — or 
love mingled with intense pity ? What means that scarce perceptible quiv- 
ering of the nether lip ? 

The words of the I'reachcr are said. George presses the husband's kiss 
on the lips of his bride. Why does Isabel — surrendering all the graceful 
beauty of her waist to the pressure of his arm — start anil tremble, as she 
feels those lips, now hot as with fever, now cold as with death f 

At this moment, through the interval made by the parting guests, advances 
the form of Washington — that face, which never yet has been painted by 
artist, or described by poet, beaming willi a paternal smile, those dark grey 
eyes, which shone so fiercely in the hour of battle, now gazing in softened 
regard, upon the bridegroom and the bride. 

The voice of Washington was heard : 

" George, when your father breathed his last, in my arms, amid the hor- 
rors of battle — it was at Trenton — with his parting breath, he besought me 
to be a father to his son ! How can I better fulfil my trust, than by placing 
your hand wiihin the hand of a beautiful and innocent woman, and bidding 
you be happy together ? She" — he turned to the bridegroom — " is worthy 
of a soldier's love. He," — turning to the bride — " he is a soldier, a little 
rash, perchance, but bravo as the summer day is long!" 

He placed their hands together, and kindly looked from face to face. 
Every eye was centred upon this interesting group. 

Here, Washington, tall and commanding; on one side the bridegroom, 
slender, almost etTeminate, yet with courage and manhood written on his 
face ; on the other — a beautiful and sinless girl '. What words can describe 
the last? 

At this moment the jocund voice of the father, good-hearted, blufT Squire 



THE NINTH HOUR. 



505 



Musgrave, was heard. With a jovial smile upon his round and criuison 
face, he advanced. 

" Look ye, George," he said. " Now that you're married, you must 
conform to a custom in our family. Never a Musgrave was wedded hut 
the silver golilet and the old wine were brought forth, and a royal bumper 
drank to the bride by all tlie guests. You dont't stand precisely in the 
light of a guest— eh. George ? ha ! ha ! But you must begin the ceremony !" 

As he spoke, a servant in livery appeared with a salver, on which was 
placed a venerable bottle, dark in the body, red about the neck, and wreallied 
in cobwebs. Thirty year old Madeira. By its side a silver goblet, antique 
in shape, carved with all manner of fawns and flowers. 

In a moment tliis goblet was filled ; from its capacious bowl flaslicd the 
red gleam of ricli old wine. 

" Drink, George ! A royal bumper to the health of the bride !" 

The movement of George were somewhat singular. Every one remarked 
the fact. As the bluff old Squire extended the goblet, George reached forth 
his hand, fixing liis blue eyes, with a strange stare, upon tlie crimson wine. 
Then a sluidder shook his frame, and communicated its tremor to the 
goblet. 

ile seized it — as with the grasp of despair, or as a soldier precipitated 
from a fortress might clutch the naked blade of a sword, to stay his fall — 
his blue eyes dilating all the while he raised it to his lips. 

His face was mirrored, there in the tremulous ripplets of the goblet, when, 
as his lip was about to press its brim, his arm slowly straightened outward 
from his body, his fingers slowly parted, each one stiflening like a finger 
of marble. 

The goblet fell to the floor. 

George seemed making a violent effort to control his agitation. That lip 
pressed between his teeth until a single blood drop came, tlie eyes wildly 
rolling from face to face, the hands nervously extended. — Was ever the last 
moment of a dying man as terrible as this ? 

He sank on one knee — slowly, slowly to the floor; he sank as though 
the blood were freezing in his veins. 

No words can i)iclure the surprise, the horror, the awe of the wedding 
gaests. 

Do you see that circle of faces, all pale as death, with every eye fixed 
upon the kneeling? Do you behold the young girl, who faints not nor 
falters, iti this hour of peril, but, with a face white as the snow, firmly ex- 
tends her hand, and calls her husband tenderly by name ? 

For a moment all was terribly still. 

At last he raised his head. He gazed upon her with eyes unnaturally 
dilated, and whispered in a tone that pierced every heart — 

" Isabel — I would speak with you alone." 

She raised him from the floor, and girding his waist with her arm, led 



506 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

him toward the next room. Had she been a fine lady she would hava 
fainleil, or shriekcil, but, Heaven be blessed, was a Woman. One of those 
wonuMi whose eharacler is not known, until Adversity, hke a lioly angel, 
reveals its heroic tirmness and divine tenderness. 

She closed the tbhlincr doors after her ; the bride and bridegroom were 
gone into the next chamber. 

For half an hour, in silent awe, — not a word spoken, not a sound heard, 
but the gasping of dee|>-drawn breath — the wedding guests waited there, 
gazing on the closed folding doors. 

It was an half hour of terrible suspense. 

As the clock struck nine Washington advanced. "1 can bear this no 
longer," he said, and pushed open the folding doors. 

Ere we gaze upon the sight he beheld, let us follow the footsteps of 
George and Isabel. 

As she led him through the doorway into that large chamber, filled with 
antique furniture, and lighted by a single candle, standing before a mirror 
on a table of mosaic work, Isabel felt the hand which sl»e grasped, covered 
with a clammy moisture like the sweat of death. 

Before that large, old-fashioned mirror, in which the light was dimly re- 
flected, — like a distant star shining from an intensely dark sky, — they sank 
down on chairs that were placed near each other, George clinging to the 
hand of his' bride as to his last hope. 

"•I'he thing which I feared has come upon me !" he gasped, speaking 
the pathetic language of Scipture — " Isabel, place your hand upon my brow, 
and hear me. The lime alotted to me is short : it rapidly glides away. 
And while you listen, do not, ha, ha ! do not smile if in the tragedy of my 
life the grotesque mingles with the terrible !" 

One hand with his own, one upon his brow, the brave girl listened. His 
wonls were few and concise : 

"Many years ago, when we were children, Isabel, on a cold, clear 
winter's day, we wandered forth in the cheerless woods, you and I, and 
Algernon. iNIy favorite dog — you remember him ? — was with us I Do 
you also remember " 

Ah, that hollow voice, that unnatural smile '. How well did Isabel 
remember. 

" Suddenly the favorite — old Wolfe, you know he was named after the 
brave General — turned upon me, fixed his teeth in my arm, and lacerated 
the flesh to the bone. Algernon struck him down " 

Isabel felt that brow grow like iron beneath her touch. 

" it was long before the woiuid was healed, but the dog, in a lew days, 
died, raging mad. Now mark you, Isabel, another circumstance. Per- 
chance you remember it also ? While my wound was most painful, there 
came to your father's house an aged woman, who was uoted for her skill itv 



THE NINTH HOUR. 607 

the healing of injuries liiio this. Siic was also reo;:irile(l by tlio country 
people as a witcli — a cori-eress ! Is it not laughable, Isabel ? — that a poor 
old creature like this, regarded by some as an Indian, by others as a Negro, 
should have such a strange influence upon my life ? She healed the wound, 
but, at the same time, whispered in my ear the popular superstition, tiiat a 
person bitten by a rabid dog, would go mad on the ninth hour of the ninth 
day of the ninth year! Child as I was, I laughed at her words. Time 
passed on ; days, months, years glided away. Need I tell you how this 
popular superstition fastened on my mind until it became a prophecy? 
Percliance the poison, communicated by the fang of liic dog, was already 
working in my veins, perchance — but why multiply words ? Tiiis awful 
fear gradually poisoned my whole existence; it drove me from my books 
into the army. I begun to thirst for death. I sought him in every battle ; 
O, how terrible ' to long for deatii liiat coraeth not!' For I was always 
haunted by a fear — not merely the fear of going mad, but the fear of the 
' ninth day of the ninth year' — the fear of dying a death at once horrible 
and grotesque — dying like a venomous beast, my form torn by convulsions, 
my reason crushed, my last breath howling forth a yell of horrible laughter — " 

lie paused ; you would not have liked to gaze upon his face. You 
would rather have faced a charge of bayonets than heard his voice. There 
was something horrible, not so much in the stillness of that dimly-lighted 
room, nor altogether in the contortions of his face, the lire of his eye, the deep 
conviction of his voice, but in the idea, — a noble mind, a brave heart, crushed 
by a mere superstition ! A young life forever darkened by an idle hUHuci- 
nation ! An immortal soul tortured by unmeaning words, uttered years 
ago, in the dewy childhood time ! 

" Isabel !" gasped the wretched bridegroom, " in a moment, yonder clock 
will strike the hour of nine ! At that hour, the end of all this agony will 
come ! Hideously transformed, I will writhe at your feet !" 

How acted then, this innocent and guileless girl, who had grown to be- 
witching womanhood amid the iiills and dells of Valley Forge? 

Hers was not the skill to argue this question in a philosophical manner. ] 

True, she had heard of great minds being haunted all their lives by a 
horrible fear. Some, the fear of being l)uried alive — some, the fear of going 
mad — some, the fear of dying of loathsome disease. 

But it was not her knowledge of these fancies — these monomanias of the 
strong-hearted— that moved her into action at thi.s hour. 

It was her woman's heart that whispered to her soul a strange but fixed 
resolve. 

" As the clock strikes nine, you will go mad," she said. " This is the 
idea that has haunted your life for years. It was this that forced the goblet 
from your lips, palsied your hand and dashed the wine to the floor ! But 
if your reason survives tlie hour of nine ? Then the danger will be over ? 
Speak George, is it so ?" 



508 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

" It is," ho gasped ; " but there is no hope — " 

The word liad not passed his hps, when she lore one hand from his 
prasp, removed the oilier to his brow. Outspreading lier arms, siie wound 
them round his neck, and buried his face upon her bosom. 

'i'lie clociv began to strike the hour of nine. 

Closer she clasped Iiiin, convulsively pressing his face to her breast — as 
to a holy shrine — until he felt her heart beating against his cheek. 

" Now, God help me !" she prayed, and reaching forth her left hand, 
grasped a glass which stood upon the Mosaic table. It was filled with 
water, fresh and sparkling, from the brook. 

Look ! she raises his head, gazes intently in his face. Ah ! she winds 
her right arm closer about his neck, and with those eyes earnestly, intensely 
fixed upon his face, she holds the glass to his lips. 

" Drink, (ieorge, and fear not ! If you love me, drink !" 

Feeble words these, when spoken again, but had j'ou heard her speak, 
or but seen the overwhelming love of her young eyes ! 

A nervous shudder shakes his frame. He shrinks from the glass. But 
he sees her eyes, he feels her voice, he extends his hand and drinks. 

The clock has struck the last knell of the fatal hour. 

He drinks ! She, gazing earnestly, w iih her face and heart fixed on liim, 
all the while, he drinks. 

" Now," she whispers, while her warm fingers tremble gently over his 
cheeks. " Now, George, speak to me • It is past ! You love me ? You 
dranU for my sake ! For my sake you conquered this fatal idea. Speak, 
speak — is it past ?" 

He rose from his chair — his face changed, as a cloud seemed to pass 
from his breast — he gazed upon her with tearful eyes, and then exclaimed 
in a tone that came like music to her soul : 

" Isabel, more than life you have saved ! My reason ; you — " 

He could speak no more. His heart was too full. His joy too deep. 

So, spreading forth his arms — as the horror of years rushed upon his 
soul — he fell weeping on her bosom. 

That was the sight which the unfolded doors revealed to Washixqton ! 



THE PREACHER-GENERAL. 509 



IV.— THE PREACHER-GENERAL. 



It was a beautiful picture, that quaint old country church, with its rustic 
steeple anil grey walls, nestling there in tlie centre of a green valley, with 
the blue sky above, and a grass-grown grave-yard all around it. 

It was indeed a fine old church, that Chapel of St. ,Iohn, and in the 
quietude of the summer noon, wiien not a cloud marred the surface of the 
heavens, not a breeze ruffled the repose of the grave-yard grass. It seemed 
like a place where holy men might pray and praise, without an earthly care, 
a worldly thought. 

The valley itself was beautiful ; one of the fairest of the green valleys 
of the Old Dominion. A slope of meadow, dotted with trees, a stream of 
clear cold water, winding along its verge, under the shadow of grey rocks ; 
to the east a waving mass of woodland ; to the west a chain of rolling hills, 
with the blue tops of the Alleghanies seen far away ! Was it not a lovely 
valley, with the quaint old church, smiling in its lap, like a Pilgrim, who, 
having journeyed afar, came here to rest for a while, amid green fields and 
swelhng hills ! 

It was a Sabbath noon, in the dark time of the Revolution. Fear was 
abroad in the land, yet here, to the good old church, came young and old, 
rich and poor, to listen to the words of life, and break the bread of God. 

Yonder, under the rude shed, you. may see the wagon of the farmer, and 
the carriage of the rich man ; or looking along this line of trees, you may 
behold the saddled horses, waiting for their masters. All is silent without 
the church ; a deep solemnity rests upon the sabbath hour. 

Within ! Ah, liere is indeed an impressive spectacle. Through the 
deep-silled windows pours the noon-day sun, softened by the foliage of trees. 
Above is the dark ceiling, supported by heavy rafters ; yonder the altar, 
with the cross and sacred letters, I. H. S., gleaming in the light ; and all 
around, you behold the earnest faces of the crowded assemblage. 

The prayers have been said, those prayers of the Episcopal church, 
which, gathered from the Book of God, How forever in a fountain of ever- 
lasting beauty in ten thousand hearts — the prayers have been said, the 
liymu-notes have died away, and now every voice is hushed, every face is 
stamped with a marble stillness. 

A few moments pas», and then behold this picture: 

Old men and young maidens are kneeling around the altar — yes, the forms 
of robust manhood and mature womanhood are prostrate there. Along the 
railing, which describes a cresent around the altar, they throng with heads 
bent low and hands clasped fervendy. 

They are about to drink the Wine of the Redeemer — to eat the bread 
of God. 

Is it not a lovely scene ? The white hairs of the old men, the brown 

63 



510 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

Iresses of the young girls, the sunburnt visages of those well-formed young 
men, the calm faces of the matrons, all touched by the flitting sunbeam. 

Look I Amid that throng a dusky negro kneels, his swart visage seen 
amid the pale faces of liis while brethren. 

All is silent in the church. Those who do not come to the altar, kneel 
in reverence, and yonder yovi may see the slaves, clustering beside the 
church-porch, with uncovered heads and forms bent in prayer. 

All is silent in the church, and the Sacrament begins. 

The Preacher stands there, within the railing, with the silver goblel 
gleaming in one hand, while the other extends the plate of consecrated 
bread. 

His tall form, clad in the flowing robes of his office, lowers erect, far 
above the heads of the kneeling men and women, while iiis bold counten- 
ance, with high brow, and clear dark eyes, strikes you with an impression 
of admiration. He is a noble looking man, with an air of majesty, without 
pride ; intellect, without vanity ; devotion, without cant. 

Tell me, as he moves along yonder, dispensing the wine and bread, while 
his deep, full voice, fills the church with the holy words of the Sacrament 
— tell me, does he not honor his great oilice, this Preacher of noble look 
and gleaming eyes ? 

Look ! how fair hands are reached forth to grasp the cup, how manly 
heads bow low, as the bread of life pas.ses from lip to lip. Not much 
whining here, not much strained mockery of devotion, but in every face 
you see the tokens of a sincere and honest religion. 

The Preacher passes along, bending low, as he places the goblet to the 
red lips of yonder maiden, or extends the bread to the white-haired man by 
her side. Meanwhile, his sonorous voice fills the church : 

And us they were eating, Jesus took bread and blessed it, and 

break it, and gave is to his disciples, and said, Take, eat, this is my body. 

Jlnd he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying. 
Drink yc all of it, for this is my blood of the New Testament, which is 
shed for many, for the remission of sins. 

As you gaze upon the scene, a holy memory seizes upon j'our soul. 

The quiet church, the earnest faces of the spectators, the sunlight steal- 
ing througli the deep-silled windows, over the group of kneeling men and 
women, who, in this time of blood and war, have met to celebrate the 
Supper of the Lord, the tall Preacher passing befofe the altar, the goblet 
gleaming in his hand — This is the scene which is now present with you. 

The memory ? 

Ah, that is of a far-gone day, some seventeen centuries ago, when in the 
fragrant chamber of Jerusalem, Jesus looked around with his eyes of eternal 
love, and shared the cup and bread with his faithful Eleven, while beloved 
John looked silently into his face, and black-browcd Judas scowled at his 
fihoulder. Yes, the Memory sei?es upon you now, and you hear his tones, 



THE PREACHER. GENERAL. 611 

you see his face, the low deep tones flowing with eternal music, the face 
of God-head, with its eyes of unutterable beauty. 

Now the Sacrament is over, yet still the men and women are kneeling 
there. 

The Preacher advances, and stands in front of his people, with the silver 
cup in his hand. A shglil breeze ruffles tlie folds of liis robes, and losses 
his dark hair back from his brow. 

He is about to speak on a subject of deep interest, for his lip is com- 
pressed, ills brow wears a look of gloom. Every man, woman and child 
in that crowded church, listens intently for his first word ; the negroes come 
crowding around the church-porch ; the communicants look up from their 
prayers. 

The words of the Preacher were uttered in a tone that thrilled every heart : 

"There is a time to preach, to pray, to light!" He paused, looking from 
face to face, with his flasiiing eyes. 

" The time to preach is gone, the time to pray is past, tlie time to fight 
has come !" 

You could see his stature dilate, his eye fire, as he thundered through 
the church — " the time to fight has come P' 

The silver goblet shook in his quivering hands. With one impulse the 
congregation started to their feet. With the same movement the kneeling 
communicants arose. These strange words burned like fire-coals at every 
heart. 

" Yes," thundered the Preacher, " Yes, my brethren, when we preach 
again, it must be with the sword by our side — when we pray, it must be 
with tlie rifle in our hands ! I say the time to fight has come ! for at this 
hour your land is red with innocent blood, poured forth by the hirelings of 
the Britisli King. For at this moment the voices of dead men call from the 
battlefields, and call to you ! They call you forth to the defence of your 
homes, your wives and lilde ones ! At this moment, while the noonday 
sun falls calmly on your faces, the voices of your brothers in arms pierce 
this lonely valley, and bid you seize the rifle, for your country and your 
God !" 

Bold words were these, majestic the bearing of the Preacher, fierce as 
flame-coals his look, eloquent his ringing voice ! 

A deep murmur swelled through the church— a wild, ominous sound— and 
then all was still again. 

" My brethren, we have borne this massacre long enough. Now, our 
country, our God, our dead brethren call on us. Now, our wives look in 
our faces and wonder why we delay to seize the sword , nay, our little ones 
appeal to us for protection against the robber and assassin. Come, my 
friends, I have preached with you, prayed with you— with you I have eaten 
the Saviour's body and drank his blood. Now, by the blessing of God, I 
will lead you to batfle. Come, in the name of that country whicii now 



512 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

bleeds beneath the Invaders feet — in the name of the dead who gave their 
lives in this holy cause — in the name of the God wiio made you, and the 
Saviour who redeemed you — I say come ! To arms ! The time to fight 
is here !" 

Did you ever see the faces of a crowd change, like the hues of the ocean 
in a storm ? Did you ever liear the low, deep, moaning of that ocean, when 
the storm is about to break over its bosom ? 

Then may you have some idea of the wild agitation which ran like 
electric fire, through this quaint old Chapel of St. John, as the preacher 
stood erect, with the goblet held in his cxtendnd hand, his brow flushed with 
a warm glow, and his e3-es gleaming fire. 

"Tiie time to fight is here," he said, as with a sudden movement he 
flung his sacerdotal robe from his form, and stood disclosed before his con- 
gregation, arraved in warrior costume. 

Yes, from head to foot, his proud form was clad in the blue uniform of 
the Continental host, while tiie pistols protruded from his belt, and the 
sword shone by his side. 

At that sight, a murmur arose, a wild hurrah shook the church. 

"To arms !" arose like thunder on the Sabbath air. 

And then there was one wild impulse quivering through each manly 
breast, as though eacii heart beat w^ith the same pulsation. Tiiey came 
rushing forward, those robust forms ; they clustered around theallar, eagerly 
reaching forth their hands to sign the paper which the Preacher laid upon 
the Sacramental tabic. In that crowd were old men with white hair, and 
boys witli beardless chins, all moved by the impulse of tlie hour. The 
women, too, were there urging their brothers, their husbands, to sign their 
names to the Preacher's muster-roll, and become soldiers for their Country 
and their God. 

The sunlight fell over the wild array of faces, glowing with emotion, and 
revealed the light forms of the women passing through the crowd, while the 
Preacher stood alone, with the paper in one hand and his good sword in 
the other. 

Sofdy came the summer breeze through the windows ; brilliantly in the 
sunlight glittered the Cross and the holy letters— I. H. S. 

Still the Preacher stood there, that proud flash upon his brow, that deep 
salisfactian gleaming from his dark eye. 

" Now," said he, gazing upon the stout forms which encompassed him 
like a wall, " now let us pray God's blessing on our swords !' 

As one man they knelt. 

The Preacher, attired as he was in the blue and buff uniform, knelt in 
their midst, clasping his sword in his hand, while his deep voice arose in 
prayer to God. 

That night, through a road that led between high rocks, three hundred 



THE PREACHER-GENERAL. 5I3 

brave men, mounted on gallant steeds, went fortli to join the Army of 
Washington. 

At their head, riding a grey steed, his tall form clad in the blue and buff 
uniform, was their leader, who, with compressed lip and gleaming eye, led 
them on to battle. 

It was the darkest hour of the battle of Germantown, when a gallant 
warrior, clad in the Continental uniform and mounted on a grey steed, was 
surrounded by a crowd of Briliah soldiers. 

All day long, that American General had gone through the ranks of battle, 
at the head of his brave men. Side by side with Washington and Wayne, 
he had rushed upon the the British bayonets. One by one, he had seen his 
gallant band measure their graves upon the fatal field. Now he was alone, 
the last in the dread retreat. 

All around was smoke and mist. Chew's house was seen to the east, 
looming grandly through the gloom. The American army were in full re- 
treat, wliile this solitary warrior, mounted on his grey war-horse, looking 
from side to side, beheld nothing but scarlet uniforms and British bayonets. 
At his back, toward the North, was a high wall, built of massive stone, a 
wall the most gallant steed might essay to leap in vain. That warrior's 
Iiorse was brave, his blood was full of lire, but he recoiled from that terrible 
leap. 

The soldier on the grey steed was a prisoner. 

The British encircled him, their bayonets pointed at his breast, while Iiis 
dark eye moved from face to face. 

A soldier advanced to secure the victim ; he was a gallant fellow, his 
brown hair waving in tliick curls around his ruddy face. He advanced, 
when the American soldier gazed in his face with a look of deep compas- 
sion, and muttered a prayer. The hand of the Briton was extended to grasp 
the bridle rein of the grey steed, when the American suddenly drew his 
pistol from the holster, and lired. 

A moment passed — the smoke cleared away. There, on the moist earth, 
bleeding slowly to death, lay the handsome Briton but the prisoner ? 

Look yonder to the South ! There, through the folds of mist, you may 
see the grey horse and his rider. Bullets whistle in the air, but he does 
not fall. Still the gallant steed keeps on his career. Right through the 
British Army, right through the hail of lead, and the gleam of bayonets, 
dashes the grey war-horse, the mist wreathing like a cloak around his 
rider's form. 

Now he turns, yes, to the North again. The band of soldiers look up 
from the corse of their dead comrade, and behold the American soldier 
dashing along the road, right in front of their path. They raise their mus- 

quets they fire. The American soldier looks back and smiles, and 

passes on. 



514 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

The wliite cloud receives him into its folds. 

Yet lo ! As he passes on through smoke and mist, urging his gallant 
grey to the lop of his speed, he sees once more the glare of red uniforms, 
the flashing of Hrilisli steel. He is surrounded by a band of dragoons, re- 
turning from the pursuit of Washington's army. Again to the South, brave 
soldier ! Again to the South, with the pursuing troopers at his horse's 
heels. How gallantly he rides — look ! You can see his form rising through 
the mist ; by the light of that pistol flasli, you can even see the tossing of 
his plume, white as a snow-flake floating in the sun. 

Again to the South, through the closely-woven ranks of the British host. 
Those soldiers look up in wonder at the strange sight — an American oflTicer 
dashing bravely liirough their lines unscathed by bullet or sword. 

Now doubling on his pursuers, now near Chew's house, now far away 
in the fields, that brave soldier kept on his flight. God and the mist favored 
him. At last, after dashing through the British lines, he was riding North- 
ward again — his pursuers had lost sight of their victim. He was riding 
slowly Northward again ; when looking ahead, he beheld a wounded man 
stretched on the sod, in the agonies of death. 

It was the brave j-oung Briton who had fallen by his shot. A tear was 
in the eye of the American soldier as he beheld that pale brow, with its 
curling brown hair. Perchance the youth had a wife — a sister — in far away 
England ? Or, maybe, even now a mother wept for his return ? 

Our Continental soldier dismounted ; he laid the head of the dying Briton 
on his knee. He moistened his hot lips with water from his flask. 

It was a sad yet lovely sight, to see that brave American, in his bine 
uniform, kneeling there, with the head of his enemy, the red-coated Briton, 
resting on his knee. 

Then as the dj'ing man looked up, his foe muttered a prayer for his 
passing soul. As that prayer went up to God, up with its accents of com- 
passion, ascended the soul of the British youth. 

The American held a dead body in his arms. 

One look at the pale face, and he sprang to his steed. He rejoined the 
American army some miles above, but never in all his life did the Preacher- 
Soldier forget the last look of the dying Briton. 

Another scene from the life of this Preacher-soldier. 

It is night around Yorklown. Yonder, through the gloom, you see dim 
masses of shadow, creeping along toward the British entrenchments. Sud- 
denly all is light, and groans and smoke I Suddenly the Continentals start 
up from darkness into the light of the cannon-glare ! Suddenly the sky is 
traversed by fiery bombs, while the earth shakes with the tread of embattled 
legions ! 

Look yonder! A desperate band of American soldiers, with fixed bayo- 
nets, advance along the trenches, and spring up the steep ascent, to the very 



THE PREACHER-GENERAL. 615 

muzzles of British cannon. This is the crisis of the fiffht. Those cannon 
spiked, this redoubt carried, and Yorktown is won ! Two brave men lead 
on these soldiers — one, the high-browed Alexander Hamilton, the other the 
Preacher-Soldier ! A desperate charge, a wild hurrah, the redoubt is won ! 

And there, standing in the glare of the cannon, on the very summit of 
the steep ascent, the flag of stars in one hand, the good sword in llip other 
the Preacher Soldier shouts to his comrades, and tells them that Yorktown 
is won. 

He stands there for a moment, and then falls in the trench, his leg shat- 
tered by a cannon ball. 

Bending over him, by the light of the battle-glare, the brave Hamilton 
gazes in his pale face, and bending beside the wounded Preacher-Soldier, 
pens a few hasty words, announcing to the Continental Congress that York- 
town is taken — Cornwallis a prisoner — America a Nation ! 

And who was this brave man, w-ho, from the altar of God's Church 
preached freedom 1 Who, the last in the retreat of Germantown, escaped 
as by a miracle from British bayonets ? Who, by a long course of gallant 
deeds, wreathed his brow with the Hero's laurel ? Who was this brave 
man ? How name you him, who led on the forlorn hope at Yorktown, 
with the starry banner waving over his head ! 

Ah, he bore the name which our history loves to cherish, which our 
literature embalms in her annals, which Religion places among her holiest 
lights, burning forevermore by the altar of God ! 

Pennsylvania is not just to her heroes. She is content to have them do 
great deeds, but she suffers them to be crowded out of histor)'. AVhile 
North and South, with untiring devotion, glorify their humblest soldiers, 
Pennsylvania is content to take but one name from a crowd of patriots, and 
blazon that name upon the escutcheon of our glory — the name of " Mad 
Anthony Wayne." 

Now let us do the Iron State some small justice at last. Now let ns 
select another name of glory from the crowd of heroes. Now let us write 
upon the column of her fame, side by side with the name of Anthony 
Wayne, the name of Peter MuHLENBiiRO, the Preacher-General of the 
Revolution ! 

There let them shine forever — those brother heroes, solemn witnesses, 
of the glory of the Land of Penn— there let them shine, the objects of our 
reverence and our love — these two great names — Peter Muhlenberg and 
Anthony Wayne. 



510 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. i 



v.— TRENTON; OR. THE FOOTSTEP IN THE SNOW. 

A TRADITION OF CHRIST.MAS NIGHT, 1776. 

It was a dark and dreary night, sixty-nine years ago, when, in an ancient 
farm-house, that rises along yonder sliorc, an old man and his children had 
gathered around their Christmas hearth. 

It was a lovely picture. 

That old man, sitting there on the broad hearth, in the full glow of the 
flame — his dame, a fine old matron, by his side — his children, a band of 
red-lipped maidens, — some with slender forms, just trembling on the verge 
ofgirliioud, — others warming and lliishing into the summer morn of wonian- 
liood ! And the warm glow of the fire was upon the while locks of the 
old man, and on the mild face of his wife, and the young bloom of those 
fair daughters. 

Had you, on that dark night — for it was dark and cold — while the De- 
cember sky gloomed above, and the sleet swept over the hills of the Dela- 
ware — drawn near that farm-house window, and looked in upon that 
Christmas hearth, and drank in the full beauty of that scene — you would 
confess with me that though this world has many beautiful scenes — much 
of the strangely beautiful in poetry — yet there, by that hearth, centred and 
brightened and burned that poetry, which is most like Heaven, the Poetry 
OF Home ! 

You have all heard the story of the convict, who stood on the gallows, 
embruted in crime — steeped to the lips in blood — stood there, mocking at 
the preaclier's prayer, mocking even the hangman ! When, suddenly, as 
he stood with the rope about his neck — his head sunk — a single, burning, 
scalding tear rolled down his cheek. 

" I was thinking," said he, in a broken voice, " I was thinking of the — 
Christmas fire !" 

Yes, in that moment, when the preached failed to warn, when even the 
hancman could not awe — a thought came over the convict's heart of that 
time, when a father and his children, in a far land, gathered around their 
Christmas fire. 

That thought melted his iron soul. 

"I care not for your ropes and your gibbets," he said. " But now, in 
that far land — there, over the waters — my fatlier, my brothers, my sisters, 
are sitting around their Christmas fire ! They are waiting for me ! And I 
am here — here upon the scafl'old !" 

Is there not a deep poetry in the scene, that could thus touch a murder- 
er's soul, and melt it into tears ? 

And now, as the old man, his wife, his daughters cluster around their 
fire, tell me, why does that old man's head droop slowly down, his eyes fill, 
his hands tremble ? 



TRENTON; OR, THE FOOTSTEP IN THE SNOW. 517 

Ah, there is one absent from the Christmas hearth ! 

He is thinking of the absent one — his manly, brave boy, who has been 
gone from the farm-house for a year. 

But hark ! Even as the tho»i;ht comes over liim, the silence of that fire- 
side is broken by a faint cry — a faint moan, heard over the wastes of snow 
from afar. 

'I'he old man grasps a lantern, and, with that young girl by his side, goes 
out upon the dark night. 

Look there — as following the sound of that moan — they go softly over 
the frozen path : how the lantern flashes over their forms — over a few 
while paces of frozen snow — while beyond all is darkness! 

SliU that moan, so low, so faint, so deep-toned, quivers on the air. 

Something arrests the old man's eye, there in the snow — they bend down, 
he and his daughter — they gaze upon that sight. 

// is a human footstep painted in the snotv, painted in blood. 

" My child," whispers the old man, tremulously, " now pray to Heaven 
for Washington ! For by this footstep, stamped in blood, I judge that his 
army is passing near this place !" 

Siill that moan quivers on the air ! 

Then the old man, and that young girl, following those footsteps stained 
in blood — one — two — three — four — look how the red tokens crimson the 
white snow '.—following those bloody footprints ; go on until they reach 
that rock, beetling over the river shore. 

There the lantern light flashes over the form of a half-naked man, crouch- 
ino- down in the snow — freezing and bleeding to death. 

The old man looks upon that form, clad in ragged uniform of the Con- 
tinental army — the stiftened fingers grasping the battered musket. 

It was his only son. 

He called to him— the young girl knelt, and— you may be sure there 
were tears in her eyes— chafed her brother's hands— ah, they were slifi' and 
cold ! And when she could not warm ihem, gathered them to her young 
bosom, and wept her tears upon his dying face. 

Suddenly that brother raised his head— he extended his hand towards 

the river. 

» Look THERE, father!" he said, in his husky voice. 

And bendintr down over the rock, the old man looked far over the 

river. 

There, under the dark sky, a fleet of boats were tossmg amid piles ot 
floaliiiT ice. A fleet of boats bearing men and arms, and extending in irreg- 
ular lines from shore to shore. 

And the last boat of the fleet— that boat just leaving the western shore 
of the Delaware ; the old man saw that too, and saw— even through the 
darkness— yon tall form, half-muffled in a warrior's cloak, with a grey war- 
horse by his side. 

63 



518 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

Was not that a strange sight to see at dead of niglit, on a dark river, 
under a darker sky ? 

The old man turned to his dvinjr son to ask the meanins of this 
mystery. 

•' Father," gasped the brave hoy, tottering to his feel. " Father, give 
me my musket — lielp tne on — help me down to the river — for to-nigiil — for 
to-night 

As that word was on his lips — he fell. He fell, and lay there stiff and 
cold. Still on his lips there hung some faintly spoken words. 

The old man — that fair girl — bent down— iliey listened to those words — 

" To-MGHT— Washingtiin— ihe British— to-night — TRENTON I" 

And with thai word gasping on his lips — " 'IVenlon !" he died ! 

The old man did not know the meaning of that word until the next morn- 
ing. Then there was the sound of musketry to the south ; then, booming 
along the Delaware came the roar of battle. 

'J'lien, that old man, willi his wife and ehildron, gadicred around the body 
of that dead boy, knew the meaning of that single word that had trembled 
on his lips. 

Know that (ieorge Washington had burst like a diunderbolt upon the 
Ikitisli Camp in Trenton ! 

Ah ! that was a merry Christmas Party which the British oflicers kept 
in the lown of Trenton, seventy years ago — although it is true, that to 
thai party there came an uninvited guest, one Mister Washington, his half- 
clad army, and certain bold Jerseymen ! 

AVould that I might linger here, and picture the great deeds of that morn- 
ing, seventy years ago. 

Would that I mi<;ht linger here upon the holy ground of Trenton. 

For it is holy ground. For it was here, in the darkest hour of the Revo- 
lution, that George Washington made one stout and gallant blow in the name 
of that Declaration, which fifly-six bold men had proclaimed in the old 
Stale House of Philadelphia, six months before. 

If that State House is the Mecca of Freedom, to which the pilgrims 
of all climes may come to worship, then is the batlle-ground of 'IVenton, 
the twin-Mecca — the Jerusalem of Freedom — to which the Children of 
Liberty, from every land, may come — look upon the footsteps of the 
mighty dead — bring their offerings — shed their tears. 

December 26111, 1776 ! — 

It was a dark night, but the first gleam of morning shone over the form 
of George Washington, as he stood beside the Hessian leader, Ralle, who 
lay in yonder room wrestling wilh death — yes, Washington stood there, and 
placed the cup of water to his feverish lips, and spoke a prayer for his 
passing soul. 

It was a dark night, but the gleam of morning shone over yon cliff dark- 



THE PRINTER BOY AND THE AMBASSADOR. 519 

ening above the wintry river, over the frozen snow, where a faiiier, a wife, 
a band of children, clustered around the cold form of a dead soldier. 

He was clad in rags, but there was a grim smile on his white lips — his 
frozen hand still clenched with an iron grasp the broken riile. 

His face, so cold, so pale, was wet with his sister's tears, but his soul had 
gone to yonder heaven, there to join the Martyrs of Trenton and of Bunker 
Hill. 

VI.-THE PRINTER BOY AND THE AMBASSADOR. 

Genius in its glory — genius on its eagle-wings — genius soaring away 
there in the skies ! 

This is a sight we often see ! 

But Genius in its work-shop — Genius in its cell — Genius digging away 
in the dark mines of poverty — Toil in the brain, and Toil in the heart — this 
is an every day fact — yet a sight that we do not often see ! 

Let us for a moment look at the strange contrast between — Intellect 
standing there, in the sunlight of Fame, with the shouts of millions ringing 
in its ears — and Intellect down there, in cold and night-crouching in the 
work-shop or the garret ; neglected — unpitied — and alone ! 

Let us for a moment behold two pictures, illustrating The Great Facts — 
Intellect in its rags, and Intellect in its Glory. 

The first picture has not much in it to strike your fancy — here are no 
dim Cathedral aisles, grand with fretted arch and towering with pillars — 
here are no scenes of nature in her sublimity, when deep lakes bosomed in 
colossal cliffs, dawn on your eye — or yet, of nature's repose, when quiel 
dells musical with the lull of waterfalls, breaking through the purple twilight 
steal gently in dream-glimpses upoaj-our soul ! 

No ! Here is but a picture of plain rude Toil — yes, hot, tired, dusty 
toil! 

The morning sunshine is stealing through the dim panes of an old 
window— yes, stealing and struggling through those dim panes, into the 
dark recesses of yonder room. It is a strange old room — the walls cracked 
in an hundred places, are hung with cobwebs — the floor, dark as ink, is 
stained with dismal black blotches— and all around are scattered the 
evidences of some plain workman's craft — heaps of paper, litde pieces of 
antimony are scattered over the floor — and there, in the light of the 
morning sun, beside that window, stands a young man of some twenty 

years quite a boy — his coat thrown aside, his faded garments covered 

with patches, w bile his right hand grasps several of those small bits of 
antimony. 

Why this is but a dull picture — a plain, sober, every-day fact. 

Yet look again upon that boy standing there, in the full light of the 
morninff sun — there is meaning in that massive brow, shaded by locks of 



620 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

dark brown hair — there is meaning in that full grey eye, now dilating and 
burning, as tiial young man stands there alone, alone in the old room. 

But what is this grim monster on which liic young man leans >. This 
thing of uncouth shape, built of massy iron, full of springs and screws, and 
bolts — tell us the name of this strange uncouth monster, on which that 
young man rests his hand ? 

Ah ! that grim old monster is a terrible thing — a horrid Phantom for dis- 
honest priests or traitor kings ! Yes, that uncouth shape every now and 
then, speaks out words that shake the world — for it is a Printing Press ! 

And the young man standing there in a rude garb, with the warm sun- 
shine streaming over his bold brow— that young man standing alone 
— neglected— unknown — is a Printer Poy ;— yes, an earnest Son of Toil ; 
thinking deep thoughts there in that old room, with its dusty floor and its 
cobweb-hung walls ! 

Those thoughts will one day shake the world. 

Now let us look upon the other picture: — 

Ah ! here is a scene full of Night and Music and Romance ! 

We stand in a magnificent garden, musical with waterfalls, and yonder, 
far through these arcades of towering trees, a massive palace breaks up into 
the deep azure of night. 

Let us approach that palace, with its thousand wiridows flashing with 
lights — hark! how the music of a full band comes stealing along this garden 
— mingling with the hum of fountains — gathering in one burst up into the 
dark concave of Heaven. 

Let us enter this palace ! Up wide stair-ways where heavy carpels give 
no echo to the footfall — up wide stair-ways — through long corridors, 
adorned with statues — into this splendid saloon. 

Yes, a splendid saloon — yon chandelier flinging a shower of light over 
this array of noble lords and beautifuf\vomen — on every side the flash of 
jewels — the glitter of embroidery — the soft mild gleam of pearls, rising into 
light, with the pulsation of fair boiioms— ah ! tliis is indeed a splendid 
scene ! 

And yonder — far through the crowd of nobility and beauty— yonder, 
imder folds of purple tapestry, dotted with gold, stands the Throne, and on 
that 'I'hrone — the King ! 

That King — these courtiers — noble lords — and proud dames — are all 
awaiting a strange spectacle ! The appearance of an Ambassador from an 
unknown Republic far over the waters. They are all anxious to look upon 
this strange man — whose fame goes before him. Hark — to those whispers 
— it is even said this strange Ambassador of an unknown Republic, has 
called down the lightnings from God's eternal sky. 

No doubt this Ambassador will be something very uncouth, j-et it still 
must be plain that he will try to veil his uncouthness in a splendid Court 
dress ! 



THE PRINTER BOY AND THE AMBASSADOR. 531 

The King, the Courtiers, are all on the tip-toe of expectation ! 

Why does not this Magician from the New World — this Chainer of 
thunderbolts — appear ? 

Suddenly there is a murmur — the tinselled crowd part on either side 

look ! — he comes : the Magician, the Ambassador ! 

He comes walking through that lane, whose walls are beautiful women ; 
— is he decked out in a Court dress ? Is he abashed by the presence of 
the King ? 

Ah, no ! Look there — how tlie King starts with surprise, as that plain 
man comes forward ! That plain man with the bold brow, the curling 
locks behind his ears — and such odious home-made blue stockings upon his 
limbs. 

Look there, and in that Magician — that Chainer of the Lightnings — be- 
hold the Printer Boy of the dusty room ; stout-hearted, true-souled, com- 
mon-sense Benjamin Franklin ! 

And shall we leave these two pictures, without looking at the deep moral 
they inculcate ? 

Without the slightest disrespect to the professions called learned, I stand 
here to-night, to confess that the great Truth of Franklin's life is the 
sanctity of Toil ! 

Yes, that your true Nobleman of God's creation, is not your lawyer, dig- 
ging away among musty parchments, not even your white cravatted divine 
— but this man, who clad in the coarse garments of Toil, comes out from 
the work-shop and stands with the noon-day sun upon his brow, not 
ashamed to ovvit himself a Mechanic! 

Ah '. my friends, there is a world of meaning in these pictures ! They 
speak to your hearts now — they will speak to the heart of Universal Man 
forever '. 

Here, the unknown Printer Boy standing at his labor, neglected, un- 
known ; clad in a patched garb, with the laborer's sweat vpon his brow 
— There, the Man whom nations are proud to claim as their own, stand- 
ing us the Jlmhassudor of a Free People — standing as a Prophet of the 
Rights of Man — nnawed, unabashed, in the Presence of Royalty and 
Gold ! 

Benjamin Franklin, in his brown coat and blue stockings, mocking to 
sliame the pomp of these Courtiers— the glittering robes of yonder King! 



§22 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 



VII. —THE REST OF THE PILGRIM. 

Like the Pilgrim of the olden time, who having journeyed through many 
lands, gathering uew memories from every shrine and fresher hopes from 
every a'tar, ascends the summit of the last hill, and bending on his staff, 
surveys afar the holiest place of all, I have reached after much joy and 
toil the end of my wanderings, and in the distance behold gleaming into 
light, the Jerusalem of my soul. 

That Jerusalem the Altar of the American Past, the Sepulchre of the 
American Dead. 

I have been a Pilgrim in holy ground. On the sod of the battle-field, 
where every flower blooms more beautiful from the oblation of heroic blood, 
poured forth upon the hallowed soil — in old mansions where the rent walls 
and blood-stained tiireshhoid bear memory of the ancient time — amid the 
shadows of the Hall of Independence, where the warm heart may see the 
Signers walk again — in the dark glen where the yell of slaughter once arose, 
and every rock received iis bloody offering — Such have been the holy 
places of my Pilgrimage into the American Past. 

And as the Pilgrim of the far-gone ages, resting on the last hill, stood aAer 
all his wanderings only in sight of the great temple of all his hopes, so does 
the Pilgrim of the battle-field, rich as he is with the relics of the Past, stand 
after all but on the threshhold of his hallowed work. 

For this book of the Revolution, stored with Legends of the Past, gathered 
from aged lips and renowned battle-fields, speaking in the language of the 
iron time of Washington and his heroes, is but a page in the traditionary 
history of our land. Much I have written, but a volume ten times as large 
as this remains yet to be written.* I have but uncovered the sealed spring 
of Revolutionary Legend, scarcely dipped my scallop shell into its wild, yet 
deep and tranquil waters. 

On this Rock of Wissahikon I pause in my pilgrimage, and write these 
words to my reader. This Rock of Wissahikon which rises on the side 
of a steep hill, amid thick woods — a craggy altar on whose summit wor- 



* In the new series of the Legends of the Revolution, now in press, the deeds of 
the heroes whom I have been forced to omit in these pages, will be illustrated. Ma- 
rios the hero of ibe South, Kirkwood of Del.iware, and Alllx AKLanf., that fear- 
less pariizan. whose courai»e and chivalry remind us of the Knighis of old. will be 
pourtrayed wiih oH the enthusiasm which their names excite. The life of Wasui.ng- 
TON, too, in all its phases of contrast, interest, grandeur, will be delineated in a series 
of Legends, extending from his cradle to his grave. 

This second volume, entitled ihe " \\'ashisgto.\- Leoesds," will be published in 
September ne.\l. 

In this place, it mav be as well to inform the reader, that another work by the 
title of '• Washington 'and his Generals." has been published by New York book- 
sellers, its title and whole pages of discriplioa pilfered from mine. 



THE REST OF THE PILGRIM. 523 

shipped long ago, the Priests of a forgotten faith. Around me branch the 
trees — glorious monuments of three hundred years — fresh with the verdure 
of June. Between their leaves the sky smiles on me, dimpled only by a j 
floating cloud. Far below, the stream Hashes and sings between its 
mountain banks. Looking down a vista of trees and moss and flowers, I 
behold a vision of forest homes, grouped by the waters. You that love to 
lap yourself in June, and drink its odors, and feel its blessed air upon your 
brows, and recline on its rocks covered witli vines, musical with birds and 
bees, should come hither. It is an altar for die Soul. 

As I sit upon this rock — the paper on my knee, the birds, the stream, the 
sky, the leaves, all ministering blessings to my soul — a strange throng of 
fancies crowd tumultuously on me. 

What was the name of the Race who peopled these clifts, and roved 
these woods two thousand years ago ! Were they but brute barbarians, or 
a people civilized with all that is noble in science or art, hallowed by the 
knowledge of all that is true and beautiful in Religion ? Where are their 
monuments ; the wrecks of City and Altar ? O, that this rock could speak, 
and tell to me the history of the long-forgotten People, who dwelt in this 
land before the rude Indian ! 

Tell us, ye Ages, what mysterious tie connects the history of the red 
men of the north, with the voluptuous children of the south ! Speak, ye 
Centuries, and reveal to us the mystic message of these monuments of the 
Past, scattered over the hills and prairies of our northern America ? The 
mounds of the west, the fortilicalions rising ruggedly from the rank grass, 
the deep-walled foundations of a city in Wiskonsan — a city that has been 
a wreck fur a thousand years — what is their Revelation ? What word have 
they of the mysterious bye-gone time ? 

Are there no Legends of the Lost Nations of America ? 
As I start back, awed and wondering from the fancies that crowd upon 
me, there rushes on my sight a vision at once sublime and beautiful ! 

It is the vision of a land washed by the waters of the Aflantic and Pacific, 
beautiful with vallies of fruit and flowers, grand with its snow-white peak 
of Orizaba, magnificent with its cities— reared in a strange yet gorgeous 
architecture — among which sits supreme, the Capitol of Montezuma ! A 
gorgeous vision ! It swells on my sight with ils altars of bloody sacrifice, 
risino- above the sea of roofs, with its clear deep lakes set in frames of 
flowers, and the volcanic mountains hemming it in a magic circle, their pil- 
lars of snow and fire supporting the blue dome of the sky ! 

Crowd your wonders of the old world into one panorama, pile Babylon 
on Palmyra, and crown them both with Rome, and yet you cannot match 
the luxury, the magnificence, the splendor that dazzles, and tiie mystery 
that bewilders, of this strange land. 

The lamest word in its history is a Romance— the wildest dreams of Ro- 
mance, hollow and meaningless, compared with its plainest fact. ^ 



524 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

And tlie name of the vision thai breaks upon me is— Mexico. 

Heliolil three lines of its liislory in tlie eourse of six huiulreil years ! 
— Six hmulreil years ago a l)arl)aroii3 honio from ihe far north of Ainerioa, 
the tribes of the Aztec people, precipitated themselves on this beautiful val- 
ley, conquered the race who dwelt there, and swelled into the civilized Em- 
pire of MoXTEZl'MA. 

— Three hundred years ajjo, a wandering advei\tiirer who came from an 
unknown land, with a band of white men clad in iron at his back — only six 
hundred homeless men — overturned the splendid dominion of Montezuma, 
and founded Ilie Empire of Cortes. 

— Now in the year eighteen-hundrcd and forty-seven, even while I write, 
the white race of North America, the children of the Revolution and conn- 
trymen of Washinolon, are thronsjini; the vallies. darkening the mountains 
ol litis land, bearing in their front aiuid a tide of sword and bayonet the 
Banner of the Stars, which they have determined to plant on the Hall of 
Montezuma and Cortez, thus establishing in the valley of Mexico, a new 
dominion — the empire of frkedom. 

Shall we not write the tradiiions of this land ? Sliall we not follow the 
Banner of the Stars from the bloody heighth of Bunker Hill, from the 
meadow of Brandywine, to the snow-clad heighth of Orizaba and the 
golden city of *Tenochtidan ? 

Yes, we will do it ; the beautiful traditions of that land speak to us in a 
voice that we may not disregard. In one work, we will combine the tradi- 
tion, the history, the battles and the religions of this wonderful land. We 
will traverse its three Eras, gathering a wild excitement as we go. First, 
the Era of the Aztec Invasion, six hundred years ago. Then the Era of 
Cortez, three hundred years back into lime. Last of all, the Era of Free- 
dom, when the bloody fields of Palo Alto, Rcsaca, the three days fight of 
Monterey, the terrible contest of Huena Vista, the seige of Vera Cruz and 
glorious rout of Ccrro Gordo, made new leaves in our history and linked 
with Cortez and Montezuma, the names of Scott and Taylor! 

To you, reader, who perused with deep sympathy, the Legends of the 
Revohition, let us present the traditions of another scene; "tub Legends 
OF Mexico." 

— Let me tell you, how the idea of writing the legends of tlie golden and 
bloody Land, lirst dawned upon me. 

One daj% not long ago, as I sat in my room, my table strewn with the 
manuscript of Washington and his Generals, there appeared on the thresh- 
hold a young man, clad in a plain military undress, his pale face, scarred 
forehead and liery eye, denoting the ravages of the battle and the fever. 

He advanced, greeted me by name, and I soon knew him as one of the 
disbanded volunteers of Mexico. 

• Aztec name of the ciiy of Me.xico. 



1 



THE REST OF THE PILGRIM. 625 

T must confess that he was a maffnifioent looking yoiinir man. Six feet 
high, his figure light, agile, and muscular, his head placed proudly on his 
shoulders — despite the withered cheek and scarred brow — he was a noble 
man for the eyes to behold. 

In short plain words, he told me his story, which was aflerwiirds corrob- 
orated by others who knew the stranger. But a year ago he had left his 
home, in one of the dear vallies of the west, left a mother and sister, joined 
the army of Taylor, shared in the perils of Palo Alto, Resaca and Monte- 
rey. You should have seen his lip quiver, his pale cheek glow, his full 
eye flash, as he spoke of the terrible storming of the Bishop's Palace. It 
made the blood run cold, to hear him talk of the sworn comrade of his 
heart, whose skull was peeled ofT, by an escoppette ball, as they advanced 
side by side along the Plaza of Monterey. 

Altogether the history of this young man, the story of his life from the 
hour when he kissed " farewell" on his sister's lips, and beheld his mother's 
while hairs gleaming from the threshhold of Home, until the moment when 
disbanded with the other volunteers, he lay fevered and dying in the Hos- 
pital of New Orleans, affected me with every varying interest ; I felt my 
heart swell, my eyes fill with tears. 

At last, I ventured to ask him how he knew my name — 

" I came," said tlie soldier, mentioning my name with an emphasis, that 
made my heart bound — " I came from the field of Monterey, to thank you 
for myself and my comrades !" 

" Thank me ?" 

" Your works have cheered the weariness of many a sleepless night. 
Gathered round our watch-fire before the battle of Monterey, one of our 
number seated on a cannon, would read, while the others listened. Yes, in 
the Courier we read your Legends of the Revolution ! Believe me, sir, 
those things made our hearts feel warm — they nerved our arms for the bat- 
tle ! When we read of the old times of our Flag, we swore in our hearts, 
never to disgrace it !" 

As the young soldier spoke, he placed in my hand a small knife, — a very 
toy of a thing — and a volume of blotted manuscript. 

" This knife I took from the vest of my dead comrade in ihe plaza of 
Monterey. Take it, sir, as a mark of gratitude from a soldier, whose lonely 
hours have been cheered by your Legends. This Manuscript contains the 
record of my wanderings— roughly written— yet the facts of the battles and 
marches are there. Accept these tokens, the knife and the book— they are 
all I have to give !" 

As the brave fellow spoke, his voice grew tremulous ; there was a tear 
in his eye. 

. Shall I confess it ? As I glanced from the papers on my table— news- 
papers among others containing the fi)ulest libels on my works, ever penned 
by the atiiinalcuLc of the Press— to the pale face of the young soldier, I felt 

64 



526 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

my lieart bmind wiih a joy unfelt before. Far more precious to my heart, 
than tlie praise of all the critics in the worki, was that scarred soldier's tear. 

Itather dwell enshrined in one honest heart like his, than enjoy llie 
praise of Critics, Reviewers, and all other Pigmies of tlie pen, whose good 
opinion can be l)oiight even as yon purchase peddler's wares. 

1 will confess, and confess frankly, that the knife, the journal of that sol- 
dier of Monterey, are worth more to me than a ribbon or a title bestowed 
by the hands of the proudest monarch that ever lived. • 

From the rough heart-warm sketches of that journal, I have constructed 
the basis of my " Leoknos of Mexico."* 

Do not charge me with the folly of egotism. 1 have journeyed far and 
long with you, my reader, and never once obtruded the Author on your 
sight. But at the same lime that I frankly confess my thorough contempt 
of the whole race of mercenary critics, whose praise 1 have once or twice 
been so unfortunate as to receive — a praise more to be dreaded than their 
slander — I must also state that the spontaneous tribute from the scarred sol- 
dier of Monterey, spoke to my inmost heart. It showed me that my labors 
were not altogether valueless ; it showed more a high and holy truth, that 
the memories of the Old Revolution are still with us, in the hearts of our 
People, binding millions in one great bond of brotherhood, and nerving the 
arms of American freemen in far distant lands, amid the horrors of savage 
battles. 

May — 1 whose greatest fault has ever been, thai I could not mould my- 
self to the humors of a tinselled aristocracy, nor worship empty pomps and 
emptier skulls, though garnished with big names and hired praise — frankly 
make the record on this page, that I am proud of the unbought approbation 
of that battered soldier of Monterey ? 

You should have heard him talk of the scenes he had witnessed, in the 
strange land of Mexico. 

In the battle where a few American freemen contended against the brave 
hordes of the southern land. Among the mountains, whose shadows still 
shelter the remnants of the Aztec People. Amid the ruins of gorgeous 
cities, whose strange architecture stamped with the traces of a thousand 
years, tells of a long lost civilization, whose wierd hieroglyphics are big 
with History that no human eye may read; whose rainbow vegetation, 
blossoming amid monument and pyramid, adorns the wreck which it cannot 
save — whose solemn temples, mysterious with God and S\'mbol, speak of 
a Religion once the barbarous Hope of millions, and now tbrgotten in that 
awful silence, brooding over the past ages, like the serene and pathless sky 
above the summit of Chimborazo ! 



* The reader will of course understand, that at the time this article in conclusion 
of Washington and liis (Icncrals was written, the previous paijes of tlie work had been 
published snrne iiiuiiihs. 'I'liis notice is nt'i'essary, to free the aiiilior from an impu- 
tation which would otherwise be made, of plagiarizing fium his own works. 



THE REST OF THE PILGRIM. 527 

Such had been the course of his wanderings ; and wherever he turned, 
he discovered the broken hnks of the great chain which connects the stern 
Indian of the rugged North, with those cliildren of the blossoming Soutli, 
the dwellers in the land of Mexico and Peru ' 

And now reader, as on this Rock of Wissaliikon I write these farewell 

words, while the supernatural beauty of this place is all about me, imbuing 

the air as with an angel presence, permit me to hope that we do not part 

forever. For the Pilgrim of the battle-lields of America will wander fortii 

again, and gather new relics from the Sepulchre of the Past. When next 

we wander forth with staff and scallop shell, our pilgrimage will tend to 

Mount Vernon ; from that shrine of our history we will bring you fresh 

stores of tradition, and from the grave of the American Chieftain, pour new 

light upon the glorious career of the brother-heroes — Washi.ngtok and his 

Generals. 

George Lippard, 

June 30, 1847. Wissahikon. 



Stereotyped by 

E. P. MOORIDGE PHILAd'a.. 



TABLE 



OF 



CONTENTS. 



Dedicatiov - - - 

IsTiiourcroiiT Essai by the Ret. C. 

CuACNCEY Bl'RII. - - . 

BOOK THE FIRST, 
Toe Battle of Gehmastowx. 

PART THE FIRST, 
The Battle-Eve. 

I. The Red Ciioss ix PiiiLAnEiPHiA 
The Enlrance of ihe British 
Lord Cornwallis at the head of his 

legions - . - - 

II. The Hauxt of the Rebel 
The Old-time village 

The view from Chesnut Hill - 
Washingtox on the Skifpack 

HI. The Camp of the Buitishkr 
Chew's house before the battle 
The position of the British Army 
Night in Germantown - 
The names, not recorded in the 
" Herald's" college 

IV. The Ninur-iVlAHcH 

Washington by his camp-fire 
His plan of battle - . 



Page 



23 



25 

2.5 
25 

25 

27 
27 
28 
29 
29 
29 
.30 
30 

31 
32 
32 
33 



III, 



Page 

The Brother's soul and the Sister's 

prayer - - - 37 

Washington comes to battle - 37 

The hunt of death begins - 38 

Pulaski's war-cry - - 39 

The flash of musquetry - 4n 
Washington and his Generals in 

battle ... 41 

The halt at Chew's House . 42 

The Flag of '1'ruce . - 43 

The Volunteer of Mercy . 43 

His murder ... 44 



PART THE THIRD, 
Chew's House. 



44 
44 



The legions ou their battle march 34 

PART THE SECOND, 
The Battle Monx. 



35 

35 
35 
36 



I. The Datbheak Watch 
The sentinel on Mount Airy 
The sound that he hears 

II. The fihst iobse of Gebmaxtown 36 VII. The aiivextiue of Washington 51 
The dream of the sentinel - 36! He rushes into the enemy's fire 51 

(520) 



The forlorn hope 

A sight worth a score of years, to see 45 

The fate of the stormers . 46 

II. The horseman and his message 47 
Washington, receives intelligence 47 

III. The British General . 43 
Scene in Germantown - 48 
The British army, in full force, 

moves to the field - 49 

IV. Legend of General Agxew - 49 
The old man in the graveyard 49 
The rifle-shot - . - 50 

V. The contest in the village 

STREET ... 50 

Sullivan's charge - . 50 

The density of the fog . . 60 

VI. Chew's house again - • 50 
Fighting in the dark - - CO 



530 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PART THE FOURTH. 



Page 



The FALL OK THE MANNER OF THE STAHS 62 

I. Washin'oton in hanger - 52 
His ifallant exploit - - 53 

II. The unknown form - - 63 
Death, in the Riot, the Home ami 

the battle - ' - - 53 

One face among a thousand - 51 

The Messenger of Peace . 54 

III. The Uevkl of Death - 56 
The drop from the ceiling - 56 
Not blood but wine - - ."iT 
The last drop from the Goblet 58 

IV. The Wissahikon - - 59 
A poem of everlasting beanty 59 
The Hessians and the Continentals 60 
The vengeance of the Continentals 6! 

V. The Crisis of the fujiit - 61 
Nine o'clocU in the morning - 61 
The daring of the (Chieftains - 62 
The Curse of Washixutun - G3 

VI. " Retreat." • - - G-1 
Washinbton's agony - - 64 

PART THE FIFTH, 

The last shot of the battle. 65 

I. The soldier and his burden - 65 

The group by the wayside - 65 

How goes the battle 1 - - 66 

The last fight of the veteran - 67 

" Lost :" .... 68 

n. How THE LEGIONS CAME RACK FROM 

BATTLE - - - 68 

The terror of the retreat . 68 

The wound of General Nash . 69 
Washington's last lookat the field 69 

HI. Captain Lee ... 69 

His daring adventure . 70 

He foils the Hanovarians - 71 

IV. Sunset upon the battle-field 71 
The spirit of desolation - 71 
Death, su prenie, among the wrecks 

of battle ... 72 

The murdered boy - - 72 

V. The legend of Ge.vehal Agnew 

AGAIN . - - 73 

He will go ' Home !' to morrow ! 73 

The last dead man of the battle day 74 
PART THE SIXTH, 

TbK FU5ERAL OF THE DEAD 74 



Page 

I. The ancient Cnrncn • - 75 

Washington and his Generals be- 

fore the graves of the dead 75 

II. Funeral sermon ovku the dead 76 
The preacher speaks of the dead 76 

To Washington . - 77 

Of the Heroes of the Past - 78 

III. Prayer for the dead . 79 
The last scene - . 80 

BOOK SECOND. 

The Wissahikon - - 85 
Introduction — the beanty of the 
stream and dell — a gleam of the 

Indian maids of old - . 85 

I. The consecration of the Deliv- 

erer .... 86 
The Monastery - - . 87 
A strange scene ... 88 
The Priest of Wissahikon - 89 
The last day of 1773 - . 90 
A wild superstition . . 91 
The new World, the Ark of Free- 
dom - - - - 92 
Prayer of the father and son . 93 
The Deliverer comes - . 94 
The Prophet speaks to him . 95 
A maiden looks upon the scene 96 
The Deliverer is consecrated - 97 
He takes the oath - . 98 
Washington visits the ruins - 98 

II. The Midnight Death - 99 

Scene on the Wissahikon at mid- 
night .... 90 

Ellen .... 100 

Old Michael meets the Tory band 101 

The Parricide ... ]02 

The Orphan's curse - . 103 
The yell of the dying horse and 

his rider ... io4 

III. The Bible Legend of the Wis- 

SMIIKON - - - 104 

A memory of " Paoli I" - 104 

'I'he ordeal - - - - 105 

The Old and New Testaments 106 

This speaks, Life, that. Death 106 

The hand of Providence - 107 

IV. The temptation ofWashincton 107 
Washington in prayer - 108 
The stranger in the red uniform 108 
A Dukedom for the Rebel - 109 
Scorn from the Rebel to the King 110 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



631 



Page 



V. 



Washinoto?! as duke, kino 
and rlbrl 



111 
111 

112 



The Viceroy Washinrton 
He is presented to the Kin 
He is crowned in Independence 

Hall - - - - 113 

He is beheaded on Tyburn Hill 113 

As HE is! - - - - 114 

VI. The HKno Woman - - 115 

The block house among the 

woods - - - 1 1 5 

The yoiino;sirl beholds her 

father's danger - - 116 
She loads the rifle - - 117 

A terrible picture - - 117 

She points the rifle to the pow- 
der keg - - - 118 
Vir. Kino Geoiige in Wkstminsteh 

Abbes - - - 119 

An afternoon among the dead 119 
How the good king looked - 120 
How he scorned the widow's 

prayer - - - 120 

What strange sights he saw - 121 
Orphans ctirse him ! - - 123 
He visits Valley Forge - 123 

Washington prays against him 124 
He goes mad again - - 125 

VIII. Valley Forge - - - 12G 
The Tory and his daughter 

Mary - - - 126 

The plot to entrap Washington 127 
'i'he Room on iheKight and the 

Room on the left - - 128 
The old man beholds his victim 129 
The last word of the death- 
stricken - - - 130 

IX. The Mansion on the Schdyl- 

KILL . . - . 131 

The falls of Schuylkill - - 131 
A scene of the olden time - 132 
The last secret of Cornelius 

Agrippa - - - 133 
The Sister, in her Vision sees 

her brother - - 134 

Amable in danger - - 134 

The libertine enjoys the sight 
of his intended victim — 
the agony of the dying 
man .... 135 

A red Indian - - - 136 

A white Indian - - - 137 



XI. 



II. 



III. 



Page 

The Virgin Widow • - 138 
'l)o not lift the coffin-lid from 

the face of the dead !' - 139 

Indian to the last - - 139 

Thk OUAVEYAnU OF Geuman- 

T<IWN - . - 1-10 

Its memories of God and Im- 
mortality ... 140 

A father — a Mother — two 

sisters! - - - HO 

The old CJuaker and the Skel- 
etons . - - . 141 
A rough battle picture - - 142 
* He saw Washington !' - 143 
— 'Cornwallis!' - - 144 
" REMF.MnEii Paoli !" - - 144 
The camp lire of Mad Anthony 144 
'I'he Massacre ... 145 
Stony Point - - .146 
How Anthony ' Remembered 

I'aoli!' - - - 148 



BOOK THIRD. 
BENEDICT ARNOLD. 



151 



TuE Mother ANn HEn BABE 151 

Scene in a New England church, 

one hundred years ago 151 

The strange vision of the 

Mother - - . 152 

The Babe grown to Manhood — 
the (yhild changed into a 
Devil - - - 153 

One drop of virtue, in a sea of 

crimes! - - . 153 

The Duuggist of New Haven 154 

The fearful nature of this his- 
tory - - . - 154 

The deformed Children of 

history ... 1.5,5 

The Druggist - - - 155 

How he became a Soldier - 156 

Ticonderoga! - - - 156 

I'he Mabcii thiiough theWil- 

DEHNESS . . _ 1.57 

Napoleon and Arnold - - 158 
Washington and Arnold, — in- 
terview " Continental." - 158 
The Kennebec — a lone Indian 159 
The Murder of a Priest at the 

Altar, by White Savages 160 
Arnold claims the Wilderness — 

the Prophecy - - 161 



082 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Page 
Thk RivBB OF THE Dead - 162 

The Danner of the Slars - 102 
The I.aKe - - - 102 

The fearlul ilangers of Arnold and 



his men - - 1G3 

He sees QuKBEc ! - - 163 

IV. Tub attack <in Qukbkc - 1G3 

Montgomery and Arnold pledge 
their I'aiih on the heighths 

of Abraham - - 164 

Arnold, with his Men, advances 

to the lirst barrier - 165 

Arnold in his glory - - 16C 

Aaron liurr bends over the 

Corse of Montgomery - 167 

Arnold in the madness of the 

bailie - - - 168 

V. The WAU-HimsE LccirEU - 16!) 
Ketreatof the American army — 

incident in the career of 

Arnold - - - 169 

VI. The ArE-and-VipER Gou - 170 
The renown of Arnold - - 170 
The Spirit of Parly - - 170 
The injustice of Congress to 

Arnold - - - 171 

His adventure near Danbury 172 

VII. The Brii>al-Etk - - 172 
The festival and wager - 173 
'J'he .•\ppaniion - - 173 
The bloody scalp and long 

black hair - - 17,5 

An awful bridal Eve ! - 176 

VIII. The Black HonsE, and his 

uiiiEit ; nil " Who was 

THE Heuo of Saiiatoga V 176 

Horatio Gates before his tent 170 

The Dlacl; Horse and his Rider 177 

"Ho! WaiihexI forward!" 17S 
The scene wiih llie relrealing 

soldiers - - - 179 
A strange spectacle ! - - 180 
The crisis of the conflict - 180 
In iheiTiomenl of peril, the Cham- 
pion of the day appears 181 
The Baule is won — fate of the 
Black Horse and his rider 
— meanness of Gates - 182 
Arnold the Conqueror - 183 

IX. Arnold the Militaiit Com- 

ItlAIVUER (IF PillLADELl'HlA 183 

The aisle of Christ Church - 183 



The Hero of Quebec and his 
Brule 



Page 



XI. 



XII. 



XIII. 



XIV. 



184 
184 
185 
180 



The Tory Aristocracy of Phila 
delphia ... 

Its cowardice, meanness and 
pretension ... 
The difliciilly of Arncdd's 

position ... 

His long expected trial and the 
offences of which he was 
found guilly - - 187 

The nature of these offences 188 
A court of History, for the trial 

of Arnold's chief accuser 189 
Who was this accuseh ! - 190 
General Cadwallader and the 
Adjutant General of the 
army — iheir conversation 
in 1776 - - .190 

Serious charges against the 

Adjutant General - 194 

The summing up of the evi- 
dence - - - 192 
Arnold's memorable words - 192 
The Disouace of Aunold . 192 
The day of the reprimand - 192 
He cannot • live down persecu- 
tion' - - - 193 
The scene of the Reprimand 194 
The portrait of the .\ccuser 195 
AnNoLn AT Lanhspowne - 196 
He meditates the Future . 196 
His Palace — his Wife — his 

Infamy - - - 197 

The silent influence of his 

Wife - - - 198 

AllNOLn THE I'llAITOR - - 199 

The struggle - - - 199 

Three visitors ... 200 

The Dispatch to Sir Henry 

Clinton 



201 
201 
201 
201 



Arnold alone with his wife 
Tnii Fall of Lucifer 
Tragedy and Common-Place 
The Breakfast table of the 

Traitor - - - 202 

The wife and the babe of the 

Traitor - - - 203 

The expected Guest, does not 

come - - - 204 

The bursting of the thunder-bolt 205 
Arnold under the British flag - 206 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



533 



Page 
Washisotos learns tlie 

Treason ... 207 
The Mother anJ WiSHiffCTON 208 
The Ship Vulture anJ its Pas- 
senger - - - 209 

XV. The ']'i:Lii'PopLAn, on the 

Pooh Men Heroes of 

THE REVOtUTIOX - 210 

Seven men watch for robbers 210 

The day-dream of the wayfarer 211 
Three men of the seven, arrest 

the traveller - - 213 
The Pass of Arnold - - 213 
The development - - 2M 
The bribe - - - 215 
A prisoner, a spy and the Vul- 
ture in sight ! - - 216 
The Poor Men Heroes of the 

Revolution - - 217 

The blunder by which Arnold 

escaped - - - 218 

XVI. The Knicut of the Mescki- 

JINZA - - - 219 

A scene of romance - 219 

The Tournament - - 220 

The scene sadly changed - 221 

The Gallows - - - 221 

The victim for the Sacrifice - 232 
The Knight of the Meschianza 

dies - - - - 223 

Flowers on the Gibbet - 223 

XVII. JOHX CllAMPE - - - 224 

The luxurious chamber - 224 

A mysterious visitor - - 235 

The Ghost of John Andre - 226 
The wife of Arnold and the 

Ghost - - 227 1 

Wabhinotox in his Tent - 228 

A Knight of the Revolution - 229 

Only one way to save Andre 1 230 

The Camp of l.ee's Legion - 231 

John Champe ... 232 

The Deserter - - - 233 

The Pursuit - - - 234 

The stratagem - - - 235 

The hounds at fault - - 236 
John Champe, the doomed man 237 
"Powhatan save your master!" 238 

The Crisis - - - 239 

Lee's laughter - - - 240 

A beautiful wumaa - - 241 



Page 
A shadow of death, in the 

festival . - - 242 

Arnold's Oath . - - 243 
Champe alone with .\rnold - 244 
Wasuin(;ton's letter - - 245 
The memory of the gallant 

Knight . - . 246 

How he died - - - 246 

Vengeance upon the Double 

Traitor - - - 243 

The Phantom of Arnold's life 249 
The .Man who has not one 

friend in the world - 250 
Lee's encampment again — 

scene changed - 250 

" Champe a brave and honest 

man'." - - - 251 

E.tplanation of the Mystery - 253 
One of the noblest names in 

history - - - 253 

XVIII. The Temptatiox of Sir Hen- 

RT Clinton - . 253 

A calm evening and a cloudles.s 

soul - - - 253 

Sir Henry Clinton shudders at 

the picture - - 254 

E.'schange the Traitor for the 

tjpy - - - 253 

Sir Henry's terrible temptation 256 
Arnold's sneer - ; - 25V 

XIX. The Sisters - - -257 
A flower garden ... 257- 
The bud and the moss rose - 258 
The Sisters talk of the absent 259 
The Presentiment of the Second 

of October - - 260 

The return of the aged soldier 261 



XX. 



XXI. 



The fatal intelligence - 


261 


The Brother's Star 


262 


Andre the Spy 


263 


Andre a partner in Arnold's 
Conspiracy 


263 


Thc Wife of Arnold, also a 
Conspirator 


263 


Washington condemned him 
justly ... 


263 


Tears for the fate of Andre . 


264 


Nathan Halb ... 


264 


The farewell of the student 

soldier ... 


264 


The Blessing of the aged 

Mother ... 


266 



65 



534 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Pngp 

The Bclrolhcd - - • 2G6 

The Cell <if ihe doomed Spy - 266 
The Miirlyr wild has perilled Honor 

ibr hisC'mintry - - - 267 

The hist night of llic Doomed • 268 

The Dcalli ol' ilie Martyr • 269 

No monument for him ! - - 270 

XXII. The Maiityk of tiik South - 270 
CMoom ill Charleston - - 270 
The C;alloH3 and the Murderer - 271 
'I'he I'rayer of the Sister luid the 

Children - • - 272 
The Response of the tilled Murderer 273 

The farewell liesidc the gibbet - 274 

The cry of the Idiot Boy • - 275 

The coiiiempl of Washington - 276 

XXIII. Arnold in Virginia - - 276 
Arnold the Dcsttoyer - - 276 
Despised by all — the men who 

bought iiiiii, and the men 

whom he would linve sold 277 

A girange legeml - • - 277 
TIk) Ueiiighled UavcUer and tlie 

old huuler - - - 278 

An old soldier's opinion of Arnold 279 

The emotion of the stranger - 280 
The old hunter sees a vision of 

the Evil Spirit - - 281 

XXIV. The thrkk worps which foi,- 
i.owFD Benedict Arnold 

TO HIS Grave - - 282 
Tho burning of New Loudon and 

Kort (Jriswold - - 28-3 

Tho death of Leydard - - 283 

British uiagnanimily - - 283 
The guilt and weakness of King 

George - • - 283 

The three words - - - 28't 

Talleyrand and Arnold • - 285 

The Remorse of the Traitor - 286 

The obscurity of his death - 286 
XXV. Arnold ; his ci.orv, his wrongs, 

His CRLMES - - - 287 

His early life . . - - 287 

Tho prime of his manhood - - 288 

W'ASHixfiTOx's opinion of him • 289 
His marriage — his enemies — his 

jx«<I()Oiii'd trial - - 290 
Review of his oireuoes, difficulties 

and troastm - - • 291 
Motives of the Author in this dark 

history - - - 292 



Pago 

The three lines, which comprise the 

whole burden of thisTnigedy 292 

XXVI.Tm: RioitT Arm - - - 293 

An awful death-hcd - - 294 

A superhuman Remorse - - 295 
'I'he last memorv of the fallen 

Lucifer ' - - - 296 

The Right arm - - - 296 

BOOK THE FOURTH. 
THK BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 

I. The Gi.orv of the Land of Penn 299 
Pennsylvania neglected by liialory 299 
Her monuments ... 300 

II. The Prophet of the Brandv- 

WINE ... - 301 
Description of the \'alley of Bran- 

dywine - - - 302 
Prophecy ullered forty years before 

the battle - - - 303 

III. The Ff:AR of War - - 306 
The landing of Howe - - 306 

IV. The Gatiierinu of the Hosts - 306 
The encampment of Washington 

and his Men ... 307 
Howe, Comwallis and their hire- 
lings .... 308 

V. The Preacher of Brandywine 309 
Tho Pieaehcr Heroes of the Revo- 
lution - - - - 309 

Hymn to the Preacher Heroes - 310 

Revolutionary Sermon - - 312 

Prayer of Uie Revolution - - 314 

VI. The Dawn of the Fight - 315 
Washington holds council under 

the chesnut tree - - 315 

La Fayette - - - - 316 

The attack at Chadd's Ford - 317 

VII. The Quaker Temple - - 318 
Survey of tlie hattle-neld - - 319 
Howo comes to iHiltle - - 320 

VIII. Washington come.s to battle - 321 
The approach of the American 

Bimiier - - - 321 

IX. The Hoi-R of Battle - - 322 
The moment before the contest 

begins - - - 322 

Howe gives the signal - - 322 

The battle - - • - 323 

X. The Poetry of Battle - - 324 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



535 



XII. 



XIII. 



The Idiot King and the Warrior 
Form . . - 

XI. Lord Percv's dream. 

The slory of Percy. tolJ by liim 

Cornwallis 
He beholds liis Dream 
His charge 
He meet.shis Indian Brother 

The Last Hour 
Retreat of Washington 
Daring of llie Boy La Fayette 
Pulaski ^ . • • 
In his glory ... 
How ho spoke English 
Washington a man of genius 
Pulaski rescues the Chikftain 
Night comes down on Pulaski 

XIV. Washington's last charge at 
Bra.ndvwine 
Washington the Man 
The key to his character . 
He surveys the battle 
He goes down, to say to the Briti: 

— "larewcU!'' 
The carnage of his last charge 
La Fayette wounded 
The smile of the Brandy wine 



Page 

324 
325 

325 
326 
327 
328 
329 
329 
329 
330 
330 
331 
332 
333 
333 

334 
334 
335 
336 

337 
338 
339 
340 



XV. The Hunter Spy - - - 340 
Scene among the mountains - 340 
WAStnxGTON, the Colonel at Brad- 
dock's field 

The three fugitives 

The sleeping spy 

His punishment 

The Boy looks in his father's face 

A horrible picture 

XVI. The son of the Hunter Spy 
The old rnan and his memory 
The peasant girl, Mary 
The son of the Hunter Spy 
The arm of the maiden, supplies the 

place of a bolt 
The Black Hercules 
The haystack 
The son, avenges the death of th 

father 
The inilimous butcheries of EnglaneJ 

and the crimes of King George 359 

The Vow of the Negro Sampson 360 

XVU. Black Sampson . - - 300 



341 
342 
343 
346 
347 
348 

348 
349 
350 
352 



354 

355 
356 

358 



Page 

Flowers from ashes - - 360 

War, the parent of many virtues - 361 
The American Union a sacred 

thing - - - 361 
The guilt of Ihc wretch who would 

destroy it ... 362 

Tlie memories of the Negro Prince 363 

The outraged Mary - - 364 

The Dog—' Debbil,' . - 365 

Sampson prepares to ' go a-mowing.' 366 

He mows British stubble - - 367 

The last scene of Mary - - 368 
The fate of the .Son of the Hunter 

Spy .... 370 

XVIIL The Mechanic Hero of Bban- 

DvwixE - - - 373 

A scene of British mercy . • 372 

The strange batlle-cry - . 374 
The three last shots of the dying 

man .... 375 

XIX. Antho.vy Wayne at Brandyvvine 375 
The boy and the mimic fight - 375 
The Man and Ihe bloody battle - 376 
Wayne and his Koan horse - 377 
His riflemen drive back the Hes- 
sians .... 378 

The doubt of Washington - 379 
Wayne beholds the batlle of the 

afternoon . . - 381 

The appearance of Kniphausen - 383 

The charge of Mad Anthony - 384 

XX. Forty-seven years after the 

battle - - - 386 

La Fayette comes again to the 

battle-field . - - 386 

His emotion as he contrasts the con- 
dition of America with that of 
France . . 387 

BOOK THE FIFTH. 

THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

I. The Day. .... 

The old slate house - . - 391 
The old man, the lioy, and the Bell 392 
The message of the Bell to iho 

world - . - - 393 
The fifty-six, and the Speech of the 

Unknown . - - 394 
The message of the Dcdaralion - 395 
The New Exodus of God's People, 



the Poor - . .396 

The signing of the Parchment . 397 



536 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



II. 



III. 



IV. 



VI. 



The Apo.sti.e to the New 

World . . '. - 
Tlio Kivcr slioro, two hundrcJ 

years ago 
Th<> Lnndingof llip Apostle 
'riio Mission of The .Aposllo 
The Pipe ol" l'<acc 
" Back EicinrKN imindred ye\rs!" 
The DiHlij-iitioii Imrril from llic 

Hall (ji'lndopondoiicc lothe 

Mount of Calvary 
The Hut of the Carpenter 
Godhead enshrined in the form oi' 

Toil .... 

The Bride of the Living God 
The Doubt of Divinity 
The Wilder.sess 
The skeleton people 



The Prince of this world - 

Tlie Panomnia of Empire - 

P^'inevah — Home, Imperial — Rome, 
PaiKil 

The bloody gnindeur of the Mon- 
ster Kmpire ... 

The voice of the Tempter, lo every 
Ueformer 

The Pharosee of the Pulpit 

The Viper of (he Press 

The Ministering of the Angels - 

" The Oi'tc.vst" ... 
Sahballi in the synagogue • 
The appearance of the Carpenter's 



\U. 



Son 

lie announces the great TViilh, in 
wliich is built tlie Declara- 
tion .... 

The " Infidel" is thrust from iho 
Syniigoguc •; - ■ 

The Godhead shines from the brow 
of Toil 

The last look of the Oiucasl upon 
his Home 

The name of the Outcast covers oil 
the earth ... 

The Coming of the day of God - 

The hope of eigiitee.n hi/ndred 

years 
The fotc of ihe Saviour's mission 

in 177o 
Popo George of England and his 

Blissior.aries ... 



410 
411 

411 

413 

413 
414 
415 
415 

41fi 
416 

417 

418 

419 

490 

421 

422 
423 

423 

423 
424 



PiiRo 
The solitary man on shipboard • 425 

V'lII. The Cot'Ncii, of I'reemen - 425 

Washi.noton, -Adams, Uosli, Fmnk- 
lin, in council with the Un- 
known stranger - - 42G 
The word " Independence" first 

s^xiken - - • 42G 

IX. The Battle of the Pen - - 427 
The author — his garret — (he battle 

which he fighls - - 427 

*' Couunon Sense" in a book • 428 

The name of ihc Stranger - 429 

X. The Author-Soldier - - 429 
He follows the Army of Wash- 

ingto.n ... 429 

The libeller of the dead - - 42D 

X. , The People a.\d the Criminal 430 

A King on Trial ; his Crime, trea- 
son to the People - • 431 

King George, guilty of treason and 

murder .... 432 

Thomas Paine pleads for the lile 

Louis Capet ... 433 

XI. Kino Gi'illoti.ve - - - 433 
Death of Louis and Marie 

Antoinette ... 433 

The olTerings lo the blootly Majesty 

of I'rancc - " • • 43-1 

.\1I. Titl'TH FRO.M the CARNAGE - 434 

Tlie principle of the French Revo- 
lution - - - 434 

The hideous murders that have been 

done in the name of Gwl - 435 

The Ueign of Terror contrasted wi h 
the Ma:*iacre of St. Barlho- 
lomew .... 436 

XIIL The Reign or the Klng of 

Terror . . >. 436 

The chamber in the palace - 436 

' The orange-faced dandy' and his 

Dcalh-list - - - 437 

XIV. The fall of Kino Guillotine 437 
The Hall of the National Assembly 

— the fear of Robespierre - 437 
Tlie Death of ihc King of tlio reign 

oflVrror - - - 438 

XV. The Bible - - - 439 
Tho Palace-Prison of tho Luxem- 
burg ... 439 

Genius profaned in the " Age of 

Keosou" - - . 440 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



537 



Page 
The beauty, tenderness, truth of 

the Bible - - - 441 

The mistake of Tliomas Paine - 442 
My motives in the discussion of liis 

cliaracler, writings and Hie 443 
Christianilvnot Ilio dogma of a creed 

but the Religion of the Heart 444 

XV[. The death-bed of Tjio.uas Paine 445 
A dying old man - . - 445 
The hyena-fang of the bigot, enters 

his soul ... 446 

A Quaker speaks Hope ! to the 

Iniidel - - - 446 

* No grave for j-our bones, in Christ- 
ian burial ground' - - 447 
He dies .... 447 

While we pity the Deist, we should 

reverence the Patriot - 448 

XVIL Review op the History - 449 

XVIIL The last day op Jefferson and 
Adams 

Thefourthof July, 1826 - 

Fifty years after the Great Day - 

The Home of Quincy 

The Death of Jolin Adams 

Tlie Heniiitage of Jlonticello 

The Death of Tliomas Jeflerson - 

A miracle - - 

A dark contrast 
XIX. The nameless death 

The Prison .... 

The Prisoner .... 

An infamous law, uplield by pirates 
and assassins in broad cloth 



XX. The last of the Signers 

Life, leaf light mingle in Death - 

The old man dies betbre the Cru. 

cifix .... 

The Violateh of the Grave, 
A sequel to the fourlliof July,1776 
The vilest Wretch - 
The man who blaspliemes the Dead 
A Traitor coated in Gold - 
The Assa-ssin of souls 
What is, and what is not, " lutU 

tim&i" . . - 

Glimpses of " Common Sense." - 
The old malice of a Tory - 
Burke the Seyophant 
A warniug to Traitors' descendants 
The children of the Author-Hero 



449 
449 
450 
451 
452 
453 
454 
454 
454 
455 
455 
45« 

457 

457 

457 

458 

459 
461 
462 
463 
464 

465 
466 
468 
469 
470 
471 



BOOK THE SIXTH. 

RoMA.NCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 



Page 



QF THE TWO WORLDS 


475 


The Soldier returning home 


475 


Tlie war-horse Old Legion 


476 


The Memory of Alice 


477 


Home! . . . . 


478 


The foreboding of death 


479 


The Soldier and his father . 


480 


Tlie Chamber of Alice 


481 


The curtained bed 


482 


The Revelation ... 


483 


The death of the white horse 


484 


The Covcnanl of Blood 


485 


The dream of the Godlike face - 


486 


The bracelet of Alice 


487 


Alice ! .... 


488 


The Revenge of the Legionary - 


489 


Michael the soldier, and Michael tl 


e 


General, Marslial and Dulie 


490 


The ninth Hour 


491 


A scene in Valley Forge 


491 


Wasiiingto.n and the .Sergeant - 


492 


A strange volunteer lor a work of 




death 


493 



The Bridegroom looks upon the 

Bride - - - - 494 
Tlie fear of the word. Nine ■ 495 
The last kiss - - - - 496 
An old mansion in a dark dell - 497 
" Dcatli to Washingto.n !" - - 498 
The Ordeal - - - - 499 
The Spy . . . . 5Q0 
*' Ah !" — how the memory of child- 
hood melts the heart of slone 501 
A strange revelation in the history 
of a soul ... 



502 

Again the iatal number — Nine ! 503 
Washington — Wayne — La Fayette 
— Hamilton — Burr, the Wed- 
ding Guests - - • 503 
IlL Washington's trust ... 504 
The fallen goblet - - - 505 
An half hourof suspense — the guests 
await the explanation of the 
mystery ... 506 

Tlie Bride and Bridegroom alone 506 
The Ninth hour of the Ninth Day 

of the Ninth Year - 507 

The Sight which Washington 

beheld - - - 508 



/ 



JZ. 



53S 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Pace 

■ 509 



I\'. The Preacher-Gexeiial 

Sabbaih Noon — the Church of St. 

John .... 509 

The Sucramcut - - - 510 

Strange words from a Preacher - 511 

Beneath the CJoivii, or Hero's heart 51:i 

The Prcaclier^iciier.il - - 513 
His mlveiiture . - .514 

Yorktown - - . - 514 

Who was the Preachcr-tSeueral - 515 

V Trento.v, or the footstep in the 

snow, a Imdiii of Clirist- 

mas night, 1776 - - 516 

The Poetry of Homo - - 51 G 

The footstep in the Snow - 517 

"Trenton!" .... 518 



VI. 



Vll. 



32- 



Page 

The Prixtkr-Bot axd the .•V.m- 

bassador . . . 519 

A picture of Toil - - . 519 
A scene of Night, Music, Romance 520 



The true Nobleman of God 
The Rkst of the PiL/Grui 
The Jerusalem of the Soul 
Tlie Rock of Wissaliikon ,- 
Legends of the Lost-Nations of 

America 
A sublime vii^ion 
The three Empires 
Legends of the golden and bloody 

bnd . - - 

The Stjldicr of llie New Cntsade 
Tlic Author to the reader - 
A new pilgriiuage 



521 
522 
522 
522 

52.? 
523 
524 

524 
525 
52ti 
527 



